BYRON'S 
SHORTER POEMS 



SELECTED AND EDITED, WITH NOTES AND AN 
INTKODUCTION 

BY 

RALPH HARTT BOWLES, A.M. 

INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH IN THE PHILLIPS EXETER 
ACADEMY, EXETER, NEW HAMPSHIRE 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 
1903 

All rights reserved 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copiet Receive* 

SEP 10 1903 

Copyright Entry 

y<^fct. fc, /<?c3 

CLASS c^ XXc. No 

6 VoST 

COPY B. 



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ty 



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COPYRIGHT, 1903, 

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up, electrotyped, and published August, 1903. 



Norton oti -gregg 

J. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 



TO 

N. C. B. 
Mn Best JFrtenfc 

THIS LITTLE BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY 
INSCRIBED 



CONTENTS XI 

PAGE 

Hebrew Melodies — continued : 

My Soul is Dark . . . . . .64 

I Saw Thee Weep . 64 

Thy Days are Done 65 

Saul . 66 

Song of Saul before his Last Battle .... 67 
" All is Vanity, saith the Preacher " . . .67 

When Coldness wraps this Suffering Clay . . 68 

Vision of Belshazzar 69 

Sun of the Sleepless 71 

Were my Bosom as False as thou deem'st it to be . 71 

Herod's Lament for Mariamne 72 

On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem by Titus 73 

By the Rivers of Babylon we sat down and Wept . 73 

By the Waters of Babylon 74 

The Destruction of Sennacherib .... 75 

A Spirit passed before Me . . . . . .76 

Stanzas for Music, "There's not a joy the world can 

give" 76 

Napoleon's Farewell 77 

From the French, " Must thou go, my glorious chief " . 78 

Ode from the French, " We do not curse thee, Waterloo " 80 

Fare Thee Well 83 

Stanzas to Augusta, " When all around grew drear and 

dark" 86 

The Prisoner of. Chillon , 87 

Darkness 100 

Monody on the Death of the Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan 103 

Prometheus 107 

Sonnet to Lake Leman 109 

Churchill's Grave 109 

A Fragment, " Could I remount the river of my years" 111 

The Dream 112 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Stanzas to Augusta, "Though the day of my destiny's 

over" 119 

Epistle to Augusta 121 

Lines on Hearing that Lady Byron was 111 . . 126 

To Thomas Moore, " What are you doing now " . .128 
To Mr. Murray, " To hook the reader " . . . .129 
To Thomas Moore, " My boat is on the shore " . . 129 
To Mr. Murray, " Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times " 130 

Ode on Venice 131 

Mazeppa 136 

Stanzas to the Po 163 

The Isles of Greece, from Don Juan . . . .165 

Ave Maria, from Don Juan 169 

Stanzas, " Could love forever " 171 

Francesca of Rimini 174 

Stanzas, " When a man hath no freedom " . . .176 

On my Thirty-third Birthday 176 

Epigram on the Brazier's Company 176 

Epigram, " The world is a bundle of hay " . . .177 
Stanzas written on the Road between Florence and Pisa 177 

Stanzas to a Hindoo Air 178 

On this Day I complete my Thirty-sixth Year . .178 

Notes 181 

Index 225 



INTRODUCTION 



I. BYRON'S LIFE 

Byron is perhaps the most picturesque figure in English lit- 
erature. His unusual personal beauty, his high rank, his 
unhappy marriage, his extensive travels, his extraordinary ad- 
ventures, and, above all, his untimely death in the cause of 
Greek independence have surrounded him with an atmosphere 
of romance. Moreover the personal note of his poetry, and the 
melancholy tone which pervades it, have roused the sympathies 
of generations of readers and invested him with peculiar interest. 

Few poets have sprung from so illustrious a race. The 
Byrons, or Buruns, were Normans of wealth and power. The 
name of Ralph de Burun appears in Doomsday Book as a tenant 
of importance under William the Conqueror. For several centu- 
ries the family seems to have maintained its eminence. At the 
siege of Calais, at the battles of Cressy, Bosworth Field, Edge- 
hill and Marston Moor, the Byrons fought with distinction. 
On his mother's side also his ancestry was equally distinguished : 
Mrs. Byron traced her descent back to James I. 

But though the earlier generations of the poet's family had 
been illustrious, his immediate ancestors showed signs of degen- 
eracy. His great-uncle killed under discreditable circumstances 
a relative and neighbor, separated from his wife, and lived 
until his death, in savage seclusion on the neglected family es- 
tate of Newstead. His father, Captain Byron, was a worthless 
gambler and rake. He eloped with the wife of Lord Carmaer- 
then, and after her divorce married her. When a few years 



XIV BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

later she died, this adventurer married, avowedly for her large 
fortune, Miss Catherine Gordon, who became the mother of the 
poet. 

George Gordon Byron was born in London, on January 22, 
1788. Soon after the birth of the child, Mrs. Byron went to 
Aberdeen, where she was presently joined by her husband. 
Captain Byron and his wife did not find each other congenial, 
however, and soon separated. Nevertheless their relations con- 
tinued to be friendly. Mrs. Byron allowed her husband to 
waste her large fortune, and when in 1791 the news of his 
death reached her, she was distracted with grief. 

The childhood of Byron was sad. He had been born with a 
misshapen foot, which was for several years the source of severe 
pain, and throughout his life the cause of great mortifica- 
tion. His mother was a weak woman, and treated the boy 
at one moment with indulgent tenderness, at the next, with 
unfeeling cruelty. He himself tells us how in a fit of anger she 
once outraged his feelings by calling him "a lame brat." 
Such a mother could have little hold on the respect or love of 
her son. 

Young Byron was passionate. On one occasion, being repri- 
manded for having soiled or torn a new frock, "he got into one 
of his ' silent rages ' (as he himself has described them), seized the 
frock with both his hands, rent it from top to bottom, and stood 
in sullen stillness, setting his censurer and her wrath at de- 
fiance." 1 In spite of this high temper, the boy was affectionate 
and tractable under wise guidance. 

When five years old, Byron was sent to a private school in 
Aberdeen. Here he seems to have learned little, however, and 
at the end of a year he was put in charge of a clergyman. Of 
this tutor he says : "Under him I made astonishing progress ; 
and I recollect to this day his mild manners and good-natured 
painstaking. The moment I could read, my grand passion was 

1 Moore's Life of Byron. 



INTRODUCTION XV 

history, and why I know not, but I was particularly taken 
with the battle near the Lake Regillus in the Roman History, 
put into my hands the first. Four years ago, when standing 
on the heights of Tusculum, and looking down upon the little 
round lake that was once Regillus, and which dots the immense 
expanse below, I remembered my young enthusiasm and my 
old instructor." 

Later he entered the grammar school of Aberdeen, where 
he remained till he was called to England at the death of his 
granduncle. Here he seems to have distinguished himself more 
in sports than in studies. By the death of his granduncle in 
1798, Byron succeeded to the title and the family estates. He 
was so agitated by the acquisition of his strange dignities, that 
when his name was called at school with its new prefix " dom- 
inus " he was unable to answer, and after remaining for some 
time speechless burst into tears. 

The boy's way of living was now utterly changed. His former 
life of frugal simplicity was irrevocably left behind, and he 
became the representative of an old and noble house. In the 
autumn of the same year, accompanied by his mother, he left 
Aberdeen for Newstead. We are told that when they reached 
the toll-bar at Newstead "Mrs. Byron, affecting to be ignorant 
of the place, asked the woman of the toll-house to whom that 
seat belonged ? She was told that the owner of it, Lord Byron, 
had been some months dead. 'And who is the next heir?' 
asked the proud and happy mother. ' They say, ' answered the 
woman, 'it is a little boy who lives at Aberdeen.' — 'And this 
is he, bless him ! ' exclaimed the nurse, no longer able to con- 
tain herself, and turning to kiss with delight the young lord 
who was seated on her lap. " 1 

On their arrival in their new home, Mrs. Byron placed her 
son under the care of a quack, in the hope that the boy's mis- 
shapen leg might be straightened. He seems to have had little 

1 Moore's Life of Byron. 



XVI BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

respect for his doctor, and amused himself by exposing the man's 
ignorance. On one occasion he scribbled on a piece of paper the 
letters of the alphabet, arranged in the form of meaningless 
words and sentences, and then asked the doctor what language 
they represented. When the pretentious quack, unwilling to 
acknowledge his ignorance, answered, " Italian," young Byron 
shouted with laughter. 

About this time Byron began to show a disposition to write 
verse. Of a visitor of his mother's whom he disliked very much 
he wrote : — 

" In Nottingham county there lives at Swan Green, 
As curst an old lady as ever was seen ; 
And when she does die, which I hope will be soon, 
She firmly believes she will go to the moon." 

In 1799 Mrs. Byron moved to London, and placed her son 
under the instruction of a tutor who prepared the boy for 
Harrow. Byron entered the school in 1801. Dr. Busby, who 
was then head-master, says of him : "I took my young disciple 
into my study, and endeavored to bring him forward by inqui- 
ries as to his former amusements, employments, and associates, 
but with little or no effect; and I soon found that a wild 
mountain colt had been submitted to my management. But 
there was mind in his eye." 1 

Though at Harrow Byron at first felt ill at ease, he later 
became a leader among his comrades. He was especially fond 
of outdoor exercise. Of his sports he thus speaks in an early 
poem : — 

" Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was done, 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one : 
Together we impelled the flying ball, 
Together waited in our tutor's hall, 

1 Moore's Life of Byron. 



INTRODUCTION xvii 

Together joined in cricket's manly toil, 

Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 

Or, plunging from the green, declining shore, 

Our pliant limbs the buoyant waters bore ; 

In every element, unchanged, the same, 

All, all that brothers should be, but the name." 1 

Later in life Byron speaks with evident pride of having repre- 
sented Harrow in a cricket match with Eton. 

To his studies he seems to have been indifferent. He had a 
contempt for the methods of instruction, and a strong dislike 
for the head-master, Dr. Butler, who soon after Byron's entrance 
into the school succeeded Dr. Busby. He formed many lasting 
friendships, however, read voraciously, declaimed well, and wrote 
excellent schoolboy verse. While here he had his first serious 
love affair, and though Miss Chaworth, the object of his affec- 
tions, soon married, Byron always thought of her with tender- 
ness. 

In 1805 Byron entered Trinity College, Cambridge. Of his 
entrance he himself wrote : — 

" When I first went up to college it was a new and heavy- 
hearted scene for me : firstly, I so much disliked leaving Harrow, 
that though it was time (I being seventeen), it broke my very 
rest for the last quarter with counting the days that remained. 
I always hated Harrow till the last year and a half, but then I 
liked it. Secondly, I wished to go to Oxford, and not to Cam- 
bridge. Thirdly, I was so completely alone in this new world, 
that it half broke my spirits. My companions were not un- 
social, but the contrary — lively, hospitable, of rank and fortune, 
and gay beyond my gaiety. I mingled with, and dined, and 
supped, etc., with them ; but, I know not how, it was one of 
the deadliest and heaviest feelings of my life to feel that I was 
no longer a boy." 

The homesick lad soon made friends, however, and became 

1 Childish Recollections. 



xviii BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

very popular among a select few. He seems not to have devoted 
himself to his studies any more seriously than at Harrow, but 
to have spent a good part of his time in riding, swimming, box- 
ing, shooting with pistols at a target, and playing cricket. He 
also took part in private theatricals. He mingled little in gen- 
eral society, partly because of a natural shyness, and partly be- 
cause his limited means prevented him from living as he felt his 
rank warranted. 

He now began to write verses more frequently. After a 
modest collection of poems privately printed and circulated 
among his friends, he was encouraged by favorable criticism to 
publish a volume for the public. Accordingly, in March, 1807, 
appeared the Hours of Idleness. The savage reception given 
these poems by the Edinburgh Review wounded the young poet 
keenly. Burning with wrath and injured pride, he wrote and 
published early in 1809 his famous satire, English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers. The effect of this poem was instantaneous. 
The power of the writer was apparent to the critics and to the 
general public. JSTo such scathing satire had been published 
since Pope's Dunciad. The first edition was quickly exhausted, 
and a second prepared, to which the poet made considerable 
additions. 

A few days before his satire appeared, Byron, who had just 
come of age, took his seat in the House of Lords. Through the 
indifferent neglect of his guardian, Lord Carlisle, he had been 
compelled to arrange without assistance the preliminaries nec- 
essary to his entrance into the House, and on the day of his 
admission he appeared before the Lords unattended. He felt 
his unfriended position keenly, and was especially bitter towards 
Lord Carlisle whom he attacked savagely in his satire. With- 
out waiting to take any part in the business of Parliament, he 
retired to Newstead, and devoted the next few months to pre- 
paring for the press a second edition of English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers, and to making arrangements for an extended 
tour abroad. 



INTRODUCTION xix 

On June 11, 1809, accompanied by his friend Hobhouse and 
several servants, he set sail for Lisbon. From Lisbon he went 
by land to Seville and Cadiz, and thence by sea to Gibraltar. 
After a short stay there, he went to Malta and thence to Alba- 
nia, where he spent several months in riding through country 
of wild beauty, almost unknown to travellers. Through letters 
which he brought to Ali Pacha, the Turkish governor of Alba- 
nia, he was everywhere hospitably entertained. He has left us 
a record of these travels in Childe Harold, which he began at 
Janina, October 31. After many stirring adventures, including 
a narrow escape from shipwreck, he arrived at Missolonghi, 
where fifteen years later he was to die. After visiting Patras, 
Delphi and Thebes, he reached Athens. Here he spent the 
winter, and in the early spring set out for Smyrna. During the 
month he remained there, he completed the first two cantos of 
Childe Harold, and made excursions into the neighboring 
country. From Smyrna he went to Constantinople, visiting 
on the way the Troad, and swimming the Dardanelles from 
Sestos to Abydos, while the ship lay at anchor in the straits. 
This feat, rendered dangerous by the swift current, and the 
length of time necessary for the swimmer to remain in the 
water, Byron felt very proud of, and commemorated by a brief 
poem. After remaining two months in Constantinople, and 
accompanying the British ambassador to an audience with the 
Sultan, he set out for Athens, which he reached in July, 1810. 
He remained there until the following spring, making occasional 
excursions to various parts of Greece. There he wrote Hints 
from Horace and The Curse of Minerva. From Athens he 
went to Malta, and thence to England, where he arrived in July, 
1811, after an absence of two years. 

While the poet was in London, making arrangements for the 
publication of the Hints from Horace and Childe Harold, he 
received the news of his mother's sudden death. Though he 
seems to have had little affection for her, he had always treated 



xx BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

her with respect, and felt her loss keenly. Almost immediately 
after this bereavement, came the news of the drowning of one of 
his most intimate friends. How he felt may be seen from a 
letter which he wrote at this time : — 

"Some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother lies 
a corpse in this house ; one of my best friends is drowned in a 
ditch. What can I say, or think, or do 1 " 

In another letter written a few months later, he mentions 
six friends or relatives who had died between May and Septem- 
ber of the same year. It is little wonder that the poet should 
have felt pursued by fate. 

With a curious inability to estimate the value of his own 
work, Byron rated the Hints from Horace, a poem now almost 
forgotten, more highly than Childe Harold. In fact but for 
the insistence of a relative, Mr. Dallas, Childe Harold might 
not have been published. The poem appeared about the first 
of March, 1812, and met with the most favorable reception. 
The critic Gifford pronounced it "the equal of any poem of the 
age." The spirit of freedom which it breathed, the revolt from 
outworn conventions which it typified, roused the enthusiasm 
of thousands of hearts whom the French Revolution and the 
Napoleonic wars had set tingling with new hopes for the future. 
The romantic career of the young poet, the hostile reception of 
his first verses, his withering satire on his critics, his loneliness, 
his travels, his stirring adventures, and his personal charm, — 
all served to make him the cynosure of all eyes. He said of 
himself, "I awoke to find myself famous." 

Byron now became the idol of London society. Everywhere he 
was sought after. From unfriended loneliness he was plunged 
into the swing of the most brilliant assemblages. He made the 
acquaintance of the most distinguished men of the time. He 
met Moore, Rogers, Campbell, and Scott, and dozens of other 
poets, essayists, statesmen and men of science. He was praised, 
nattered, and patronized. His works followed one another in 
rapid succession. The Giaour appeared in May, and passed 



INTRODUCTION XXI 

through five editions before the end of the year. It was soon 
followed by The Bride of Abydos, and The Corsair, of which 
14,000 copies were sold in one day. 

The novelty of fashionable life soon wore off, however, and 
Byron began to live more quietly. He seems to have become 
utterly disgusted with the shallowness, vice, and hypocrisy of 
London society, and spent more and more of his time at home, 
or in the company of a few congenial friends. He tells us in 
his journal that he spent the morning in boxing or fencing, the 
afternoon in calling or receiving visitors, and the evening at the 
theatre or over his books. 

In September, 1814, Byron became engaged to Miss Milbanke, 
a wealthy and accomplished heiress. They were married in 
the following January. After a brief residence in the country, 
Byron moved to London with his bride. The state of his 
finances was such that he was now persecuted by his creditors, 
and was soon compelled to sell his library to obtain some slight 
relief. In December a daughter was born to him. About the 
middle of the following January, 1816, Lady Byron, taking her 
infant, left London, ostensibly to make a short visit to her par- 
ents. She parted from her husband with kindness, and wrote 
him a playful note on the road. Immediately on her arrival at 
her father's house, her father wrote to Byron, announcing that 
she would never return. The poet was stunned. Though his 
relations with his wife, during the year which they were 
together, had not been entirely without friction, nothing had 
occurred which enabled him to account for his wife's conduct. 
At this time, in writing to a friend, he said : "In the mean- 
time, I am at war ' with all the world and his wife ' ; or rather, 
'all the world and my wife' are at war with me, and have not 
yet crushed me, — whatever they may do. I don't know that 
in the course of a hair-breadth existence I was ever, at home 
or abroad, in a situation so completely uprooting of present 
pleasure, or rational hope for the future, as this same." Though 
Byron attempted to obtain from his wife her reasons for con- 



xxii BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

duct which was to him inexplicable, he was never able to do so. 
His communications were ignored. 

The news of Lady Byron's abandonment of her husband 
spread rapidly. The mischievous, envious, and malicious imme- 
diately circulated the most scandalous tales, and soon black- 
ened the poet's reputation beyond recognition. His popularity 
had been somewhat injured before his marriage, by the publica- 
tion of some verses on the Princess Charlotte. The irregular- 
ities of his private life, though no worse than those of most 
fashionable men of the period, and some criticisms of his on the 
orthodox religious views of the time, were now cited as evidence 
of his depravity. The proud, sensitive poet was deeply hurt, 
and hastily arranging his affairs, he left England, April 25, 
1816, never to return. 

Landing at Ostend, Byron drove to Brussels and visited the 
neighboring battle-field of Waterloo. Thence he journeyed to 
the Rhine, and up the river to Geneva, where he arrived in 
June. Taking near the town a villa called Diodati, he re- 
mained until October. While there he saw something of Ma- 
dame de Stael, — whom he had previously met in London, — the 
philosopher Schlegel, and Shelley, who was staying in Geneva. 
With Shelley he made many excursions in the neighboring 
mountains and on the lake, and on one occasion narrowly es- 
caped being wrecked in a squall. He took great pleasure in 
visiting, about the lake, places of historic and literary interest. 
A visit to the ancient castle of Chillon led to the writing of 
The Prisoner of Chillon. There also he wrote the third 
canto of Childe Harold, and began Manfred. All his work 
written at this time shows the effect of his recent misfortunes. 
In Manfred, especially, appear a force of thought, a vigor of 
expression, a power of imagination that are new to his work. 
The wild magnificence of the Alps seems to have inspired him 
with a fierce delight, and to have stimulated his creative faculty. 
Leaving Geneva in the autumn, he went to Milan and thence 
to Verona, where he visited the so-called tomb of Juliet. From 



INTRODUCTION XXlll 

Verona he went to Venice, where he arrived about the middle 
of November. 

The next two years were the least creditable part of Byron's 
life. Feeling himself to have been practically banished from 
England as a moral leper, filled with hatred of what he con- 
sidered to be the hypocrisy of English society, he was in a mood 
to throw aside all that his countrymen called respectability, and 
in a spirit of bravado to indulge in excesses that should outrage 
English prudery. In this rebellious condition of mind, he un- 
fortunately found himself in a society where morality, as under- 
stood by the English, did not exist. The effect on a man of 
Byron's passionate temperament was what we should naturally 
expect. He threw himself into the wildest dissipation. His 
excesses became notorious even in Venice. At this time he 
wrote : — 

" I have hardly had a wink of sleep this week past. We are 
in the agonies of the Carnival's last days, and I must be up all 
night again, as well as to-morrow. I have had some curious 
masking adventures this Carnival; but, as they are not yet 
over, I shall not say on. I will work the mine of my youth to 
the last veins of the ore, and then — good night; I have lived, 
and am content." 

Under the strain Byron's health began to fail. A fever at- 
tacked him ; his digestion gave out ; his hair turned gray. His 
splendid constitution seemed to be on the point of breaking 
down. His letters at this time show plainly the change that 
had taken place in the man. Their former easy amiability 
gives way to hardness and irritability. He speaks sharply to 
his friends, and finds fault with his publisher. For his early 
writings he had refused to accept any money. Now his wild 
extravagance leads him to drive hard bargains. But with all 
his dissipation he was not idle. In a letter he says : "By way 
of divertisement, I am studying daily, at an Armenian monas- 
tery, the Armenian language. I found that my mind wanted 
something craggy to break upon ; and this — as the most difii- 



XXIV BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

cult thing I could discover here for amusement — I have chosen, 
to torture me into attention. " 

Though burning his life away feverishly, Byron did not stop 
writing poetry ; but, with the same astonishing readiness that 
he had shown in London, he turned out, in quick succession, the 
fourth canto of Ghilde Harold, Beppo, the first four cantos of 
Don Juan, and some shorter poems. In Beppo and Don Juan 
the poet wrote in a new manner, combining savage satire with 
good-natured ridicule, now descending to buffoonery, now rising 
to exquisite poetry. The rapidity with which he changed from 
seriousness to gayety, from lofty sentiment to indecency, is be- 
wildering and exasperating. The reader is constantly in doubt 
as to whether the poet is in earnest or is laughing at him. 

Fortunately for Byron and the world in general, an event now 
occurred that altered the whole course of the poet's life. In 
April, 1819, he met the Countess Cuiccioli, the eighteen-year-old 
bride of a wealthy old nobleman, to whom she had been married 
by her ambitious family. Byron fell in love with her at first 
sight. She returned his affection, and during the remainder of 
his life they lived on terms of the most tender intimacy. The 
love of this young girl, fresh from the seclusion of a convent, 
seems to have renewed in some measure his faith in the world, 
and to have roused his own self-respect. He abandoned his 
former loose habits and began to live more normally. Soon 
after meeting Byron, the countess returned home to Ravenna 
with her husband. A severe illness of the lady soon led to the 
poet's going to that city, where, except for a few months spent 
in Venice, he continued to live for the next two years. In July, 
1820, the countess was formally separated from her husband, 
and withdrew to a villa a few miles from Ravenna, where she 
lived quietly with her father, Count Gamba. 

While living in Ravenna Byron became greatly interested in 
Italian politics. He gave considerable assistance to the Lib- 
erals, who were planning an uprising against the Papal govern- 
ment, concealed arms and ammunition in his house, and aided 



INTRODUCTION XXV 

and abetted the insurrectionists in every way he could. The 
failure of the revolutionists led to the banishment of Count 
Gamba and his son, who were known to be in active sympathy 
with the movement. They left Ravenna, together with the 
Countess Guiccioli, in July, 1821, and went to Florence, and 
later to Pisa, whither they were followed a few months afterward 
by Byron. 

During his stay in Ravenna the poet wrote industriously. 
Besides translations from Dante and Pulci, and some minor 
poems, he wrote five dramas : Marino Faliero, Sardanajoalus, 
The Tivo Foscari, Cain and Heaven and Earth, — the first 
three within one year. 

Byron arrived in Pisa about the first of November, 1821. 
The following spring Leigh Hunt came from England with his 
family, and began to publish a magazine called The Liberal. 
The idea of starting such a periodical, in which he could print 
his own works as he wrote them, had occurred to Byron several 
years before. Later he seems to have abandoned the idea, for 
he expressly tells us that he allowed himself to be drawn into 
the scheme by Shelley, who was a friend of Hunt and wished 
to assist him. Byron lent money to Hunt and contributed to 
the magazine, but the tragic death of Shelley, in July, 1822, 
hastened the failure of the plan. With characteristic kindness, 
Byron supported Hunt and his large family for some time, and 
then assisted them to return to England. 

While living in Pisa the poet paid a brief visit to Leghorn, 
and was there entertained on board an American squadron then 
lying in port. He was greatly pleased with his reception, and 
in letters to his friends spoke warmly of the Americans. This 
visit led to his sitting for his portrait to the artist West. In 
Pisa Byron completed Werner, a drama begun in England some 
years before, wrote The Deformed Transformed, and six addi- 
tional cantos of Don Juan. In September the Gambas were 
banished from Tuscany, and Byron moved with them to Genoa. 

The failure of the revolutionists in Italy was a severe disap- 



xxvi BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

pointment to Byron. He had been deeply interested in the 
cause of freedom in Italy, not only on account of his friendship 
with some of the leaders of the movement, but because of his 
constitutional hatred of tyranny. " I have simplified my poli- 
tics, " he wrote from Italy, "into an utter detestation of all 
existing governments ;" and again : " Give me a republic. The 
king-times are fast finishing ; there will be blood shed like water 
and tears like mist, but the peoples will conquer in the end. I 
shall not live to see it, but I foresee it." 

After leaving Ravenna he seemed to become more and more 
uneasy, and to long for action. The impression that his liter- 
ary popularity was waning doubtless contributed somewhat to 
this longing. At one time the struggles of the South American 
republics interested him, and he had some thoughts of going to 
assist them in their efforts against Spain ; but the result of his 
inquiries discouraged him from the idea. In April, 1823, Byron 
was called on by a representative of a committee formed in 
London to assist the Greeks to win their independence. He 
immediately became interested in the revolution, and soon de- 
cided to throw himself heart and soul into the cause. He went 
about his preparations with much practical good sense. After 
making careful inquiries as to the most immediate needs of the 
Greeks, he arranged his affairs and prepared for his departure. 
Chartering an English brig, he loaded it with arms and am- 
munition for himself and his party, medical supplies, and about 
twenty thousand dollars in specie. About the middle of July, 
1823, accompanied by three companions and eight servants, he 
set sail from Genoa. He weut first to Cephalonia, where he 
wished to ascertain as correctly as possible the exact situation 
of affairs. After a five months' stay there, he went to Misso- . 
longhi, narrowly escaping capture by the Turks on the way. 
At his destination he was met by the revolutionary leader, 
Prince Mavrocordatos, and amid cheers, music, and the firing of 
cannon, was conducted to the house that had been prepared 
for him. 



INTRODUCTION XXVll 

The next three months were full of trial. With exaggerated 
notions of Byron's wealth, the Greeks made the most extrava- 
gant demands on him. With unselfish generosity he expended 
all his available resources in support of the Greek cause. At 
the same time he set about trying to organize the disorderly 
revolutionists. He had set his heart on taking Lepanto, which 
commanded the entrance to the Gulf of Corinth, and began to 
make energetic preparations for the attack. A Suliote brigade 
that he had relied on largely for this expedition became so un- 
ruly, however, that he was obliged to give up the plan. On 
February 15 he was seized with a convulsive fit which seriously 
weakened him. We are told that : "Soon after his dreadful 
paroxysm, when, faint with over-bleeding, he was lying on his 
sick bed, with his whole nervous system completely shaken, 
the mutinous Suliotes, covered with dirt and splendid attires, 
broke- into his apartment, brandishing their costly arms, and 
loudly demanding their wild rights. Lord Byron, electrified 
by this unexpected act, seemed to recover from his sickness ; 
and the more the Suliotes raged, the more his calm courage 
triumphed. The scene was truly sublime." 1 

The end was not far off. Early in April, exposure brought 
on a fever. Without proper care or medical attendance, he 
rapidly grew worse, and on April 19 he died. Three days later 
the funeral ceremony took place. An eyewitness thus described 
the event : — 

" In the midst of his own brigade, of the troops of the gov- 
ernment, and of the whole population, on the shoulders of the 
officers of his corps, relieved occasionally by other Greeks, the 
most precious portion of his honored remains were carried to 
the church where lie the bodies of Marcos Bozzaris and of Gen- 
eral Normann. There we laid them down : the coffin was a 
rude, ill-constructed chest of wood ; a black mantle served for 
a pall; and over it we placed a helmet and a sword, and a 

1 Moore's Life of Byron. 



xxvill BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

crown of laurel. But no funeral pomp could have left the im- 
pression, nor spoken the feelings, of this simple ceremony. The 
wretchedness and desolation of the place itself ; the wild and half- 
civilized warriors around us; their deep-felt, unaffected grief; 
the fond recollections ; the disappointed hopes ; the anxieties 
and presentiments which might be read on every countenance ; 
— all contributed to form a scene more moving, more truly 
affecting, than perhaps was ever before witnessed round the 
grave of a great man." 1 

Shortly afterward the poet's body was taken to England. 
Refused a place in Westminster Abbey, the remains were taken 
to the little church of Hucknall, near Newstead, and placed in 
the family vault. Over them, on a tablet of white marble, is 
the following inscription : — 

IN THE VAULT BENEATH 

WHERE MANY OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTHER ARE 

BURIED 

LIE THE REMAINS OP 

GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON 

LORD BYRON, OF ROCHDALE, 

IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER, 

THE AUTHOR OF " CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE." 

HE WAS BORN IN LONDON ON THE 

2 2D OF JANUARY, 1788. 

HE DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE, ON THE 

19TH OF APRIL, 1824, 

ENGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO RESTORE 

THAT COUNTRY TO HER ANCIENT FREEDOM AND RENOWN. 

HIS SISTER, THE HONORABLE 

AUGUSTA MARIA LEIGH, 

PLACED THIS TABLET TO HIS MEMORY. 

1 Moore's Life of Byron. 3d 



II. BYRON'S PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS 



Bykon's life was from childhood full of storm and stress. 
" What a pretty boy Byron is ! What a pity he has such a 
leg ! " said a thoughtless nurse within his hearing. " Dinna 
speak of it ! " cried the little fellow, angrily striking at her with 
his whip. This sensitiveness about his deformity followed him 
through life. During his last illness in Greece, the doctors 
wished to apply blisters to the soles of his feet. " When on 
the point of putting them on, " says Dr. Millingen, " Lord Byron 
asked me whether it would not answer the purpose to apply 
both on the same leg. Guessing immediately the motive that 
led him to ask this question, I told Jiim that I would place them 
above the knees. 'Do so' he replied." 1 

He showed a similar sensitiveness to real or imagined slights. 
Just before his departure from England in 1809, a friend found 
him "bursting with indignation. 'Will you believe it?' said 

he, 'I have just met , and asked him to come and sit 

an hour with me ; he excused himself; and what do you think 
was his excuse? He was engaged with his mother and some 
ladies to go shopping ! And he knows I set out to-morrow, to 
be absent for years, perhaps never to return ! Friendship ! I 
do not believe I shall leave behind me, yourself and family ex- 
cepted, and perhaps my mother, a single being who will care 
what becomes of me.'" 2 

Harsh criticism hurt him keenly. Some one who saw Byron 
immediately after he had read the famous review of the Hours 

1 Moore's Life of Byron. 2 Ibid. 



xxx BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

of Idleness, found him so agitated that he thought the poet 
must have received a challenge. He never quite got over this 
sensitiveness, though he always stoutly denied it. Yet he gen- 
erally underrated his own works, and gave many of his contempo- 
raries undue praise. One of his literary estimates is especially 
amusing to us, after nearly a century has decided the place of 
the poets of Byron's time. In his journal he arranged a dia- 
gram to represent the rank of the poets then living. At the 
top he placed Scott ; after him, Rogers ; in a third line, Moore 
and Campbell ; next, Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge ; after 
them, the general crowd. 

But while not conceited, Byron was extremely vain. In youth 
he was threatened with stoutness, and for many years he dieted 
to reduce his flesh. For days he would go without any food 
except biscuits and soda water. He took a childish delight in 
the effect of his first speech in the House of Lords; and just 
before setting out for Greece he had three splendid helmets 
made and engraved with his crest, for the use of himself and 
the two friends who were to accompany him. Byron's vanity 
was innocent enough, however, and was a thousand times out- 
weighed by his generosity. For English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers he would not take a penny. He gave the copyright 
of Childe Harold to a needy friend, who sold it for six hundred 
pounds. During his stay in Italy he gave to charity about one- 
fourth of his income, besides contributing thousands of pounds 
to the assistance of the Italian patriots. Later he gave all his 
ready money, and all that he could borrow -without ruining his 
fortune, to the cause of Greece. 

We have abundant testimony to Byron's personal charm. 
The American painter West thus wrote of him : — 

"On the day appointed, I arrived at two o'clock, and began 
the picture. I found him a bad sitter. He talked all the time, 
and asked a multitude of questions about America — how I 
liked Italy, what I thought of the Italians, etc. When he was 
silent, he was a better [ worse ? ] sitter than before ; for he 



INTRODUCTION xxxi 

assumed a countenance that did not belong to him, as though 
he were thinking of a frontispiece for Childe Harold. In about 
an hour our first sitting terminated, and I returned to Leghorn, 
scarcely able to persuade myself that this was the haughty mis- 
anthrope whose character had always appeared so enveloped in 
gloom and mystery ; for I do not remember to have met with 
manners more gentle and attractive. . . . Upon the whole, 
I left him with an impression that he possessed an excellent 
heart, which had been misconstrued on all hands from little else 
than a reckless levity of manners, which he took a whimsical 
pride in opposing to those of other people. " 1 

Though never a good rider and nervous when in a carriage, 
Byron had undoubted courage. On one occasion he w~as nearly 
shipwrecked off the coast of Albania. The passengers and the 
crew were frantic with terror, and gave up the vessel for lost. 
Byron tried to comfort his companions ; and finally, wrapping 
himself in his cloak, he lay down on the deck, calmly to await 
the result. During the latter part of his stay in Ravenna he 
lived in constant danger of assassination ; but in spite of warn- 
ings he continued to take his usual daily rides in the forest, and 
to go about in public as before. 

He was expert in the use of weapons, and was especially 
skilful with a pistol. In Ravenna and in Pisa he went regu- 
larly outside the city to practise pistol shooting at a target. 
His swimming abilities were remarkable. Besides making his 
famous passage of the Dardanelles, he once swam across the 
Tagus, — a feat more dangerous because it compelled him to 
remain longer in the water. 

Like Scott, Byron was very fond of pets. He lamented the 
death of his favorite Newfoundland dog, Boatswain, in the fol- 
lowing verses : — 

"... the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 
The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 

1 Moore's Life of Byron. 



xxxil BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 
Who labors, rights, lives, breathes for hirn alone, 
Unhonor'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 
Denied in heaven the soul he had on earth." 

Shelley tells us, in describing a visit to Byron in Ravenna, that 
the poet had "two monkeys, five cats, eight dogs, and ten 
horses, all of whom (except the horses) walk about the house 
like masters of it." 

Byron was all his life a late riser. At Newstead, in his 
younger days, he rarely rose till past noon ; and later, while in 
Italy, he generally rose at two, read or chatted with friends till 
six, rode till eight, dined and then sat up till four or five in the 
morning, reading or writing. When occasion required, how- 
ever, he could change his mode of life. During his last days 
in Greece he rose early, ate the simplest food, and spent the 
time in incessant labor. 

Byron wrote very rapidly. " Lara, " he says, " I wrote 
while undressing after coming home from balls and masquer- 
ades, in the year of revelry, 1814. The Bride was written in 
four, The Corsair in ten, days. " He was unable to recast any- 
thing once written, but he usually changed his poems by ex- 
cision or addition, while they were passing through the press. 
The Giaour was in this way extended to more than three times 
its original length. Byron took no credit to himself for the 
rapidity with which he wrote, but rather looked on it as a sign 
of weakness. The fact is that he was not enough of an artist 
to enjoy working over a subject, after the emotion that had in- 
spired it had cooled. 

It is difficult to give a satisfactory estimate of Byron's char- 
acter. He was so many-sided, his sensibilities were so keen, 
his passions so turbulent, his life was so full of apparent con- 
tradictions, that we are sometimes bewildered by the man's ex- 
traordinary personality. As Taine says, "All other souls, in 
comparison with his, seem inert. " But when we take into 
consideration the peculiar circumstances which surrounded him 



INTRODUCTION xxxiii 

throughout life ; the lack of wholesome home influences in 
childhood, and wise friendly counsel in youth and manhood; 
when we remember that he lived at a time when English society 
was corrupt, and cant and hypocrisy the fashion ; we feel in- 
clined to forget his worst excesses, to pardon his bitterness, to 
pity his loneliness and his yearnings for sympathy, to admire 
and marvel at his genius, and to call him, with Macaulay, " the 
most celebrated Englishman of the nineteenth century. " 



III. BYRON'S PLACE IN POETRY 



In 1831 Macaulay said of Byron: "That his poetry will 
undergo a severe sifting, that much of what has been admired 
by his contemporaries will be rejected as worthless, we have 
little doubt. But we have as little doubt, that, after the 
closest scrutiny, there will remain much that can only perish 
with the English language." Seventy years have done what 
the great critic expected. The Byron fad has passed away. 
The sentimental youths who wore their shirt collars open, tied 
their neckties after his fashion, and wrote gloomy verses in 
autograph albums have disappeared. The spell of the great 
man's personality no longer awes us, and his works remain to 
be judged according to whatever they contain of beauty or 
wisdom for us. As we read them we find much that our 
modern taste rejects. His shorter poems contain much repeti- 
tion. There is a too frequent recurrence of personal complaint. 
We feel inclined to doubt the seriousness of the poet's woes, 
and to wonder if they are not in some measure due to unwhole- 
some living. The narrative poems, taken as wholes, seem tire- 
some because they fail to appeal to our present-day sympathies. 
Giaours and Corsairs, love-smitten Turks, and revengeful rene- 
gades interest us but little. Yet these poems contain bits 
of beautiful description and rapid narrative. We do find, how- 
ever, after careful and sympathetic reading, many of the short 
poems which interest and delight us. Lachin y Gair is as 
spirited and fresh as the mountains it sings of. The Girl of 
Cadiz, which Moore dismissed as "singsong," has lost nothing 



INTRODUCTION XXXV 

of contagious gayety. Fare Thee Well stirs our pity to-day as 
it must have stirred that of thousands of readers of the poet's 
own time. Darkness excites our horror. On this Day I com- 
plete my Thirty-Sixth Year makes our blood tingle with its 
manliness. These poems and many others have for us an in- 
terest as real as if they had been written only yesterday. 

If we look for perfect workmanship we shall be disappointed. 
Of all poets Byron is the most uneven. He has written nothing 
so uniformly rich in imagery as Keats' Eve of St. Agnes or the 
Ode on a Grecian Urn; nothing with such sustained music 
and ethereal grace as Shelley's Cloud ; nothing with such ex- 
quisite perfection of finish as some of Tennyson's songs. For 
Byron was as an artist inferior to all of these poets. He had 
not the patience to polish or to prune. Yet at times Byron 
reached the high-water mark of lyric expression. When in 
Manfred he puts into the mouth of a spirit such lines as 
these — 

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ; 

They crowned him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced, 

The Avalanche in his hand ; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass, 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place, 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his caverned base — 

And what with me wouldst Thou ? 

we must acknowledge that he possessed a lyric power at times 
equal to Shelley's. 

In the dramas we find expressed Byron's ripened genius. 



XXXvi BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

There is a dignity of thought, a breadth of movement, an in- 
sight into the depths of the human soul, and a skill in character- 
ization that we should perhaps hardly expect to find in a poet 
whose powers seem at first sight to be essentially lyric. The 
dramas were not written for the stage, and Marino Falter o, 
which was played in spite of Byron's protests, failed as an acting 
drama. Yet they possess many of the qualities of good acting 
plays, especially Sardanapalus, which has a good deal of lively 
movement, some excellent situations, and impressive dignity. 
Throughout, they reflect the character of a mature and really 
noble Byron, who has suffered much from his own weakness 
and from being misunderstood, and who has gained wisdom 
from experience. What the poet would have accomplished had 
he not died before his powers matured is perhaps idle to con- 
jecture. But it seems easy to believe that his growing wisdom 
would have enabled him to use with increasing effectiveness his 
splendid abilities both in lyric and in dramatic poetry. 

If in estimating Byron we cease to look for perfect poems 
and consider his work as a whole, we shall be more likely to do 
him justice. He has bequeathed to us a considerable body of 
poetry. Though much of it is commonplace, enough of it is 
still beautiful to us, enough of it still warm with the passion 
which inspired it, to make us thankful that he lived. We can 
hardly say that he had any message for the world. The world 
puzzled him, and he spent most of his life fighting it. There 
is abundant evidence, however, that he had begun to see more 
clearly into the mystery of life, and would sometime have been 
able to speak to his fellow-men more wisely. But whether he 
had a definite message or not, he stands for certain ideals. He 
was honest and sincere. He hated hypocrisy and shams. Even 
Don Juan, the poem for which he has been most abused, is 
chiefly a protest against the vice of so-called respectable society. 
He was the champion of liberty, of political and religious 
freedom. In Childe Harold, in The Prisoner of Chillon, and 
in Marino Faliero he denounced tyranny. In Cain and in 



INTRODUCTION xxxvn 

some of his short poems he denounced religious prejudice and 
superstition. The gospel that he preached was the gospel of 
enlightenment. 

A little more than twenty years ago, Matthew Arnold pre- 
dicted that, when the year 1900 came, Byron and Wordsworth 
would stand out as the two great poets of the closing century. 
Some present-day critics would perhaps place beside them 
Tennyson and Browning. In either case Byron's fame is equally 
undisputed. He belongs among the immortals. 



IV. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE 

Biographical : 

Life of Lord Byron, Thomas Moore. 

Byron (English Men of Letters), John Mchol. 

Lord Byron (Great Writers series), Hon. Roden Noel. 

Critical : 

Essays in Criticism, second series, Matthew Arnold. 

Studies in Literature, Edward Dowden. 

Moore's Life of Byron (essay from Edinburgh Review), T. B. 

Macaulay. 
Essays in Literary Criticism, R. H. Hutton. 
Letters to Bead Authors, Andrew Lang. 
Byron and Wordsworth, A. C. Swinburne. 

General : 

English Literature, H. A. Taine. 

Literary History of England in the XVIIIth and XlXth 
Centuries, Mrs. Oliphant. 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY 

"Why dost thou build the hall, sou of the winged days ? Thou 
lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the' 
desert comes, it howls in thy empty court." — Ossian. 

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle ; 

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay ; 
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 

Have choked up the rose which late bloomed in the way. 

Of the mail-covered Barons, who proudly to battle 5 

Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 

The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle, 
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 

No .more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, 

Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurelled wreath ; 10 

Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan slumbers, 
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy ; 

For the safety of Edward and England they fell ; 
My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; 15 

How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell. 

On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending, 
Four brothers enriched with their blood the bleak field ; 

For the rights of a monarch their country defending, 

Till death their attachment to royalty sealed. 20 

B 1 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, departing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 

Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting 
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 25 

'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish ; 

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; 30 
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; 

When decayed, may he mingle his dust with your 
own ! 1803 



ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBLIC 
SCHOOL 

Where are those honors, Ida ! once your own, 
When Probus filled your magisterial throne ? 
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
Hailed a barbarian in her Csesar's place, 
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 
And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. 
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control ; 
Pomposus, by no social virtue swayed, 
With florid jargon, and with vain parade ; 
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, 
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools, 
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws, 
He governs, sanctioned but by self-applause. 



A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE 3 

With him, the same dire fate attending Rome, 15 

Ill-fated Ida ! soon must stamp your doom ; 
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, 
No trace of science left you, but the name. 

July, 1805 

FRAGMENT 

WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH 

Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren, 
"Where my thoughtless childhood strayed, 

How the northern tempests, warring, 
Howl above thy tufted shade ! 

Now no more, the hours beguiling, 5 

Former favorite haunts I see ; 
Now no more my Mary smiling 

Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 1805 

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND 
SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL 

Oh! milii prseteritos referat si Jupiter annos. — Virgil. 

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
Embitters the present, compared with the past • 

Where science first dawned on the powers of reflection, 
And friendships were formed, too romantic to last ; 

Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance 5 

Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; 

How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance, 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied! 



4 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Again I revisit the hills where we sported, 

The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought ; 
The school where, loud warned by the bell, we resorted, 11 

To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 

Again I behold where for hours I have pondered, 
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay ; 

Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wandered, 15 

To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 

I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded, 
Where, as Zanga,° I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown ; 

While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded, 
I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone : 20 

Or, as Lear,° I poured forth the deep imprecation, 
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason deprived; 

Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, 
I regarded myself as a G-arrick revived. 

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you ! 25 

Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast ; 
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you : 

Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. 

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me, 

While fate shall the shades of the future unroll ! 30 

Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me, 

More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 

But if, through the course of the years which await me, 
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, 

I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me, 35 
" Oh ! such were the days which my infancy knew." 

1806 



A COLLEGE EXAMINATION 5 

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAM- 
INATION 

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Magnus his ample front sublime uprears : 
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, 
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. 
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, 5 

His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome ; 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
Unskilled to plod in mathematic rules. 

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried, 
Though little versed in "any art beside ; 10 

Who, scarcely skilled an English line to pen, 
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What, though he knows not how his fathers bled, 
When civil discord piled the fields with dead, 
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, 15 
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France ; 
Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta, 
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ; 
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, 
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid \ 20 

Of Grecian dramas vaunts- the deathless fame, 
Of Avon's bard° remembering scarce the name. 

Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
Class-honors, medals, fellowships, await; 
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, 25 

If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
But lo ! no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup within his scope. 
Not that our heads much eloquence require, 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Th' Athenian's glowing style, or Tully's fire. 

A manner clear or warm is useless, since 

We do not try by speaking to convince. 

Be other orators of pleasing proud : 

We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd : 

Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 

A proper mixture of the squeak and groan : 

No borrowed grace of action must be seen, 

The slightest motion would displease the Dean° ; 

Whilst every staring graduate would prate 

Against what he could never imitate. 

The man who hopes t' obtain the promised cup 
Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up ; 
Nor stop, but rattle over every word — 
No matter what, so it can not be heard. 
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest : 
Who speaks the fastest's sure to speak the best ; 
Who mutters most within the shortest space 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
Linger in ease in G-ranta's sluggish shade ; 
Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie, 
Unknown, unhonored live, unwept for die : 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, 
They think all learning fixed within their walls : 
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, / 
All modern arts affecting to despise, 
Yet prizing Bentley's, Branck's, or Porson's note, 
More than the verse on which the critic wrote : 
Vain as their honors, heavy as their ale, 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; 
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel 
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 



LACHIN Y GAIR 7 

With eager haste they court the lord of power, 

Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour ; 

To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, 65 

While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. 

But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, 

They'd fly to seek the next who filled his place. 

Such are the men who learning's treasures guard ! 

Such is their practice, such is their reward ! 70 

This much, at least, we may presume to say — 

The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 



1806 



LACHIN Y GAIR° 



Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! 

In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, 

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love ; 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 

Round their white summits though elements war ; 
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, 

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered ; 

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; 
On chieftains long perished my memory pondered, 

As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade ; 
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; 
For fancy was cheered by traditional story, 

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

" Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices 
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ? " 

Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale. 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, 

Winter presides in his cold icy car : 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers ; 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 

" Ill-starred, though brave, did no visions foreboding 

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause 1 " 
Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden, 

Victory crowned not your fall with applause : 
Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, 

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar ; 
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number, 

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 

Years have rolled on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, 

Years must elapse ere I tread you again : 
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, 

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 

To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar : 
Oh, for the crags that are wild and majestic ! 

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! 

L'AMITIE EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES 

Why should my anxious breast repine, 

Because my youth is fled ? 
Days of delight may still be mine ; 

Affection is not dead. 
In tracing back the years of youth, 
One firm record, one lasting truth 

Celestial consolation brings ; 
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, 
Where first my heart responsive beat, — 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 



V A Ml TIE EST L' AMOUR SANS AILES 9 

Through few, but deeply chequered years, 

What moments have been mine i 
Now half obscured by clouds of tears, 

Now bright in rays divine ; 
Howe'er my future doom be cast, 15 

My soul, enraptured with the past, 

To one idea fondly clings ; 
Friendship J that thought is all thine own, 
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone — 

" Friendship is Love without his wings J " 20 

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave 

Their branches on the gale, 
Unheeded heaves a simple grave, 

Which tells the common tale ; 
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, 25 

Till the dull knell of childish play 

From yonder studious mansion rings ; 
But here whene'er my footsteps move, 
My silent tears too plainly prove 

" Friendship is Love without his wings! * 30 

Oh Love ! before thy glowing shrine 

My early vows were paid ; 
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, 

But these are now decayed ; 
For thine are pinions like the wind, 35 

No trace of thee remains behind, 

Except, alas ! thy jealous stings. 
Away, away ! delusive power, 
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour ; 

Unless, indeed, without thy wings. 40 

Seat of my youth ! thy distant spire 
Recalls each scene of joy ; 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

My bosom glows with former fire, — 

In mind again a boy. 
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, 
Thy every path delights me still, 

Each flower a double fragrance flings ; 
Again, as once, in converse gay, 
Each dear associate seems to say 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

My Lycus° ! wherefore dost thou weep 1 

Thy falling tears restrain ; 
Affection for a time may sleep, 

But, oh, 'twill wake again. 
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, 
Our long-wished interview, how sweet ! 

From this my hope of rapture springs ; 
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, 
Absence, my friend, can only tell, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

In one, and one alone deceived, 

Did I my error mourn 1 
No — from oppressive bonds relieved, 

I left the wretch to scorn. 
I turned to those my childhood knew, 
With feelings warm, with bosoms true, 

Twined with my heart's according strings ; 
And till those vital chords shall break, 
For none but these my breast shall wake 

Friendship, the power deprived of wings ! 

Ye few ! my soul, my life is yours, 

My memory and my hope ; 
Your worth a lasting love insures, 

Unfettered in its scope ; 






THE PRAYER OF NATURE 11 

From smooth deceit and terror sprung, 75 

With aspect fair and honeyed tongue, 

Let Adulation wait on kings ; 
With joy elate, by snares beset, 
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 80 

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 

Who rolls the epic song ; 
Friendship and truth be my reward — 

To me no bays belong; 
If laurelled Fame but dwells with lies, 85 

Me the enchantress ever flies, 

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings ; 
Simple and young, I dare not feign ; 
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 90 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE 

Father of Light ! great God of Heaven ! 

Hear'st Thou the accents of despair 1 ? 
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 

Can vice atone for crimes by prayer 1 

Father of Light, on Thee I call ! 

Thou see'st my soul is dark within ; 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert from me the death of sin. 

No shrine I seek, to sects unknown ; 

Oh, point to me the path of truth ! 
Thy dread omnipotence I own ; 

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 



12 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, 

Let superstition hail the pile, 
Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 

With tales of mystic rights beguile. 

Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone ? 

Thy temple is the face of day ; 

Earth, ocean, heaven, Thy boundless throne. 

Shall man condemn his race to hell, 
Unless they bend in pompous form 1 

Tell us that all, for one who fell, 
Must perish in the- mingling storm? 

Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 
Yet doom his brother to expire, 

Whose soul a different hope supplies, 
Or doctrines less severe inspire 1 

Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, 
Prepare a fancied bliss or woe ? 

Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground, 
Their great Creator's purpose know ? 

Shall those, who live for self alone, 
Whose years float on in daily crime — 

Shall they by faith for guilt atone, 
And live beyond the bounds of Time ? 

Father ! no prophet's laws I seek, — 
Thy laws in Nature's works appear ; — 

I own myself corrupt and weak, 

Yet will I pray, for Thou wilt hear ! 



TO A LADY 13 

Thou, who canst guide the wandering star 
Through trackless realms of sether's space ; 

Who calni'st the elemental war, 

Whose hand from pole to pole I trace : — 

Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, 45 

Who, when Thou wilt, canst take me hence, 

Ah ! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, 
Extend to me Thy wide defence. 

To Thee, my God, to Thee I call ! 

Whatever weal or woe betide, 50 

By Thy command I rise or fall, 

In Thy protection I confide. 

If, when this dust to dust 's restored, 

My soul shall float on airy wing, 
How shall Thy glorious name adored 55 

Inspire her feeble voice to sing ! 

But, if this fleeting spirit share 

With clay the grave's eternal bed, 
While life yet throbs, I raise my prayer, 

Though doomed no more to quit the dead. GO 

To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 

Grateful for all Thy mercies past, 
And hope, my God, to Thee again 

This erring life may fly at last. 



TO A LADY° 

Oh ! had my fate been joined with thine, 
As once this pledge appeared a token, 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

These follies had not then been mine, 
For then my peace had not been broken. 

To thee these early faults I owe, 5 

To thee, the wise and old reproving : 
They know my sins, but do not know 

'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. 

For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 

And all its rising fires could smother ; 10 

But now thy vows no more endure, 

Bestowed by thee upon another. 

Perhaps his peace I could destroy, 
And spoil the blisses that await him ; 

Yet let my rival smile in joy, 15 

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 

Ah ! since thy angel form is gone, 
My heart no more can rest with any ; 

But what it sought in thee alone, 

Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 20 

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid ! 

'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee ; 
Nor hope nor memory yield their aid, 

But pride may teach me to forget thee. 

Yet all this giddy waste of years, 25 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; 

These varied loves, these matron's fears, 

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures — 

If thou wert mine, had all been hushed : — 
This cheek, now pale from early riot, 



WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD 15 

With passion's hectic ne'er had flushed, 
But bloomed in calm domestic quiet. 

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 

For Nature seemed to smile before thee ; 

And once my breast abhorred deceit, — 35 

For then it beat but to adore thee. 

But now I seek for other joys : 

To think would drive my soul to madness ; 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 40 

Yet, even in these a thought will steal, 

In spite of every vain endeavor, — 
And fiends might pity what I feel, — 

To know that thou art lost forever. 



I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD 

I would I were a careless child, 

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
Or roaming through the dusky wild, 

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave ; 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride 

Accords not with the free-born soul, 
Which loves the mountain's craggy side, 

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 

Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, 
Take back this name of splendid sound 1 

I hate the touch of servile hands, 
I hate the slaves that cringe around. 

Place me among the rocks I love, 

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar : 



BYRONS SHORTER POEMS 

I ask but this — again to rove 

Through scenes my youth hath known before. 

Few are my years, and yet I feel 

The world was- ne'er designed for me : 
Ah I why do darkening shades conceal 

The hour when man must cease to be ? 
Once I beheld a splendid dream, 

A visionary scene of bliss : 
Truth ! — wherefore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a world like this % 

I loved — but those I loved are gone ; 

Had friends — my early friends are fled : 
How cheerless feels the heart alone, 

When all its former hopes are dead ! 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart — is lonely still. 

How didl ! to hear the voice of those 

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, 
Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 

Associates of the festive hour. 
Give me again a faithful few, 

In years and feelings still the same, 
And I will fly the midnight crew, 

Where boisterous joy is but a name. 

And woman, lovely woman ! thou, 

My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
How cold must be my bosom now, 

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall ! 



THE ADIEU 17 

Without a sigh would I resign 45 

This busy scene of splendid woe, 
To make that calm contentment mine, 

Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 

Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 50 

My breast requires the sullen glen, 

Whose gloom may suit a darkened mind. 
Oh ! that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest ! 
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 55 

To flee away, and be at rest. 

THE ADIEU 

WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR WOULD 
SOON DIE 

Adieu, thou Hill ! where early joy 

Spread roses o'er my brow ; 
Where Science seeks each loitering boy 

With knowledge to endow. 
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes, 5 

Partners of former bliss or woes ; 

No more through Ida's paths we stray ; 
Soon must I share the gloomy cell, 
Whose ever slumbering inmates dwell 

Unconscious of the day. 10 

Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, 

Ye spires of Granta's vale,° 
Where Learning robed in sable reigns, 

And Melancholy pale. 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Ye comrades of the jovial hour, 
Ye tenants of the classic bower, 

On Cama's verdant margin placed, 
Adieu ! while memory still is mine, 
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine, 

These scenes must be effaced. 

Adieu, ye mountains of the clime 

Where grew my youthful years ; 
Where Loch na G-arr in snows sublime 

His giant summit rears. 
Why did my childhood wander forth 
From you, ye regions of the North, 

With sons of pride to roam ? 
Why did I quit my Highland cave, 
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, 

To seek a Sotheron home ? 

Hall of my sires ! a long farewell — 

Yet why to thee adieu 1 
Thy vaults will echo back my knell, 

Thy towers my tomb will view : 
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, 
And former glories of thy Hall 

Forgets its wonted simple note — 
But yet the Lyre retains the strings, 
And sometimes, on iEolian wings, 

In dying strains may float. 

Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, 

While yet I linger here, 
Adieu ! you are not now forgot, 

To retrospection dear. 
Streamlet ! along whose rippling surge, 
My youthful limbs were wont to urge 



THE ADIEU 19 

At noontide heat their pliant course ; 
Plunging with ardor from the shore, 
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, 

Deprived of active force. 50 

And shall I here forget the scene 

Still nearest to my breast 1 
Rocks rise and rivers roll between 

The spot which passion blest ; 
Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem 55 

Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, 

To me in smiles displayed ; 
Till slow disease resigns his prey 
To Death, the parent of decay, 

Thine image cannot fade. 60 

And thou, my Friend ! whose gentle love 

Yet thrills my bosom's chords, 
How much thy friendship was above 

Description's power of words ! 
Still near my breast thy gift I wear, 65 

Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear, 

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem ; 
Our sonls were equal, and our lot° 
In that dear moment quite forgot ; 

Let Pride alone condemn ! 70 

All, all is dark and cheerless now ! 

No smile of Love's deceit 
Can warm my veins with wonted glow, 

Can bid Life's pulses beat : 
Not e'en the hope of future fame 75 

Can wake my faint, exhausted frame, 

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. 
Mine is a short inglorious race, — 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

To humble in the dust my face, 

And mingle with the dead. 8( 

Oh Fame ! thou goddess of my heart ; 

On him who gains thy praise, 
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, 

Consumed in Glory's blaze ; 
But me she beckons from the earth, 85 

My name obscure, unmarked my birth, 

My life a short and vulgar dream ; 
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, 
My hopes recline within a shroud, 

My fate is Lethe's stream. go 

When I repose beneath the sod, 

Unheeded in the clay, 
Where once my playful footsteps trod, 

Where now my head must lay, 
The meed of pity will be shed 95 

In dew drops o'er my narrow bed, 

By nightly skies, and storms alone ; 
No mortal eye will deign to steep 
With tears the dark sepulchral deep 

Which hides a name unknown. 100 

Forget this world, my restless sprite, 

Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven : 
There must thou soon direct thy flight, 

If errors are forgiven. 
To bigots and to sects unknown, 105 

Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne ; 

To Him address thy trembling prayer : 
He, who is merciful and just, 
Will not reject a child of' dust, 

Although His meanest care. HO 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE 21 

Father of Light ! to Thee I call, 

My soul is dark within : 
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, 115 

Who calm'st the elemental war, 

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive ; 
And, since I soon must cease to live, 

Instruct me how to die. 120 

1807 
FAREWELL TO THE MUSE 

Thou Power ! who hast ruled me through infancy's days, 
Young offspring of fancy, 'tis time we should part ; 

Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, 
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. 

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, 5 

Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing ; 

The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, 
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, 

Yet even these themes are departed forever ; 10 

No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire, 
My visions are flown, to return, — alas ! never. 

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, 

How vain is the effort delight to prolong ! 
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, 15 

What magic of fancy can lengthen my song 1 

Can the lips sing of love in the desert alone, 

Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign 1 



22 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ? 

Ah, no ! for those hours can no longer be mine. 20 

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love ? 

Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain ! 
But how can my numbers in sympathy move, 

When I scarcely can hope to behold them again 1 

Can I sing of the deeds which my fathers have done, 25 
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my sires ? 

For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone ! 
For heroes' exploits how unequal my fires ! 

Untouch 'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast — 

Tis hush'd, and my feeble endeavors are o'er ; 30 

And those who have heard it will pardon the past, 

When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more. 

And soon shall its wild, erring notes be forgot, 

Since early affection and love are o'ercast ; 
Oh ! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, 35 

Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last. 

Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet; 

If our songs have been languid, they surely are few ; 
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet — 

The present — which seals our eternal Adieu. 40 

1807 



EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL 



A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS 

John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, 
A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well ; 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED 23 

He carried so much, and he carried so fast, 

He could carry no more — so was carried at last ; 

For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one, 5 

He could not carry off, — so he 's now carri-on. 

September, 1807 

STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

Bright be the place of thy soul ! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control, 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 

On earth thou wert all but divine, 5 

As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
And our sorrow may cease to repine 

When we know that thy God is with thee, 

Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be ; 10 

There should not be the shadow of gloom 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 

Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
May spring from the spot of thy rest : 

But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 15 

For why should we mourn for the blest 1 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED 

When we two parted 
In silence and tears, 

Half broken-hearted 
To sever for years, 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 



The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame ; 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 



They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well : - 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 



In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee? — 

With silence and tears. 



1808 



LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP 25 



LINES INSCRIBED UPOH A CUP FORMED PROM 
A SKULL 

Start not, nor deem my spirit fled ; 

In me behold the only skull, 
From which, unlike a living head, 

Whatever flows is never dull, 

I lived, I loved, I quaff'd like thee : i, 

I died : let earth my bones resign ; 
Fill up, thou canst not injure me ; 

The worm hath fouler Mps than thine. 

Better to hold the sparkling grape, 

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood ; 10 

And circle in the goblet's shape 

The drink of gods, than reptile's food. 

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 

In aid of others' let me shine j 
And when, alas ! our brains are gone, 15 

What nobler substitute than wine ? 

Quaff while thou canst : another race, 
When thou and thine, like me, are sped, 

May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 

And rhyme and revel with the dead. 20 

Why not 1 since through life's little day 
Our heads such sad effects produce ; 

Redeeni'd from worms and w?*sting clay, 
This chance is theirs, to be of use. 

Newstead Abbey, 1808 



26 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



WELL! THOU ART HAPPY 

Well ! thou art happy, and I feel 
That I should thus be happy too ; 

For still my heart regards thy weal 
Warmly, as it was wont to do. 

Thy husband 's blest — and 'twill impart 
Some pangs to view his happier lot : 

But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
Would hate him, if he loved thee not ! 

When late I saw thy favorite child, 

I thought my jealous heart would break ; 

But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
I kissed it for its mother's sake. 

I kissed it, — and repressed my sighs, 

Its father in its face to see ; 
But then it had its mother's eyes, 

And they were all to love and me. 

Mary, adieu ! I must away : 

While thou art blest I'll not repine ; 

But near thee I can never stay ; 

My heart would soon again be thine. 

I deemed that time, I deemed that pride 
Had quenched at length my boyish flame ; 

Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 

My heart in all, — save hope, — the same. 

Yet was I calm : I knew the time 

My breast would thrill before thy look ; 



INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT 21 

But now to tremble were a crime — 
We met, — and not a nerve was shook. 

I saw thee gaze upon my face, 

Yet meet with no contusion there : 30 

One only feeling could'st thou trace ; 

The sullen calmness of despair. 

Away ! away ! my early dream 

Remembrance never must awake : 
Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream 1 35 

My foolish heart, be still, or break. 

November 2, 1808 

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEW- 
FOUNDLAND DOG° 

When some proud son of man returns to earth, 

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, 

And storied urns record who rests below ; 

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 5 

Not what he was, but what he should have been : 

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 

The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 

Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 

Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 10 

Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth, 

Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 

While man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven, 

And claims himself a sole, exclusive heaven. 

Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 15 

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, 

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, 

Degraded mass of animated dust ! 



28 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 20 

By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 

Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, 

Pass on — it honors none you wish to mourn : 

To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 25 

I never knew but one, — and here he lies. 

Newstead Abbey, November 30, 1808 



TO A LADY, 

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN 
THE SPRING 

When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 

A moment linger'd near the gate, 
Each scene recalFd the vanish'd hours, 

And bade him curse his future fate. 

But, wandering on through distant climes, 5 

He learnt to bear his load of grief; 
Just gave a sigh to other times, 

And found in busier scenes relief. 

Thus, lady ! will it be with me, 

And I must view thy charms no more ; 10 

For while I linger near to thee, 

I sigh for all I knew before. 

In flight I shall be surely wise, 

Escaping from temptation's snare ; 
I cannot view my paradise 15 

Without the wish of dwelling there. 

December 2, 1808 



TO FLORENCE 29 



TO FLORENCE 



Lady ! when I left the shore, 

The distant shore which gave me birth, 

1 hardly thought to grieve once more, 

To quit another spot on earth ; 

Yet here, amidst this barren isle,° 

Where panting Nature droops the head, 

Where only thou art seen to smile, 
I view my parting hour with dread. 

Though far from Albion's craggy shore, 
Divided by the dark-blue main ; 

A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er, 
Perchance I view her cliffs again : 

But wheresoe'er I now may roam, 

Through scorching clime and varied sea, 

Though Time restore me to my home, 
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 

On thee, in whom at once conspire 

All charms which heedless hearts can move, 

Whom but to see is to admire, 

And, oh ! forgive the word — to love. 

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
With such a word can more offend ; 

And since thy heart I cannot share, 
Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 

And who so cold as look on thee, 
Thou lovely wanderer, and be less 1 



30 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Nor be, what man should ever be, 
The friend of Beauty in distress ? 



Ah ! who would think that form had past 
Through Danger's most destructive path, 

Had braved the death- wing'd tempest's blast, 
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath 1 



Lady ! when I shall view the walls 
Where free Byzantium once arose, 

And Stamboul's oriental halls 
The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 

Though mightiest in the lists of fame 
That glorious city still shall be ; 

On me 'twill hold a dearer claim, 
As spot of thy nativity : 



And though I bid thee now farewell, 
When I behold that wondrous scene, 

Since where thou art I may not dwell, 
'Twill soothe to be where thou hast been. 

September, 1809 



THE GIRL OF CADIZ 

Oh, never talk again to me 

Of northern climes and English ladies ; 
It has not been your lot to see, 

Like me, the lovely Girl of Cadiz. 



THE GIRL OF CADIZ 31 

Although her eye be not of blue, 5 

Nor fair her locks, like English lassies, 
How far its own expressive hue 

The languid azure eye surpasses J 



Prometheus-like° from heaven she stole 

The fire that through those silken lashes 
In darkest glances seems to roll, 

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes : 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthened flow her raven tresses, 
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, 

And curled to give her neck caresses. 



Our English maids are long to woo, 

And frigid even in possession ; 
And if their charms be fair to view, 

Their lips are slow at love's confession ; 
But, born beneath a brighter sun, 

For love ordained the Spanish maid is, 
And who, when fondly, fairly won, 

Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz ? 



The Spanish maid is no coquette, 

Nor joys to see a lover tremble, 
And if she love, or if she hate, 

Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
And, though it will not bend to gold, 

'Twill love you long and love you dearly. 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

The Spanish girl that meets your love 

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial, 
For every thought is bent to prove 

Her passion in the hour of trial. 
When thronging foemen menace Spain, 

She shares the deed and shares the danger; 
And should her lover press the plain, 

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 



And when, beneath the evening star, 

She mingles in the gay Bolero, 
Or sings to her attuned guitar 

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero, 
Or counts her heads with fairy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 
Or joins Devotion's choral band, 

To chaunt the sweet and hallowed vesper ; — 



In each her charms the heart must move 

Of all who venture to behold her ; 
Then let not maids less fair reprove 

Because her bosom is not colder : 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam 

Where many a soft and melting maid is, 
But none abroad, and few at home, 

May match the dark-eyed GM of Cadiz. 



1809 



STANZAS 3'3 

STANZAS 

COMPOSED DURING A THUNDERSTORM 

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, 

Where Pindus' mountains rise, 
And angry clouds are pouring fast 

The vengeance of the skies. 

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 5 

And lightnings, as they play, 
But show where rocks our path have crost, 

Or gild the torrent's spray. 

Is yon a cot I saw, though low 1 

When lightning broke the gloom — 10 

How welcome were its shade ! — ah, no ! 

'Tis but a Turkish tomb.° 

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 

I hear a voice exclaim — 
My way-worn countryman, who calls 15 

On distant England's name. 

A shot is fired — by foe or friend 1 

Another — 'tis to tell 
The mountain-peasants to descend, 

And lead us where they dwell. 20 

Oh ! who in such a night will dare 

To tempt the wilderness ? 
And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear 

Our signal of distress ? 



34 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

And who that heard our shouts would rise 25 

To try the dubious road ? 
Nor rather deem from nightly cries 

That outlaws were abroad. 



Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour ! 

More fiercely pours the storm ! 
Yet here one thought has still the power 

To keep my bosom warm. 

While wandering through each broken path, 

O'er brake and craggy brow; 
While elements exhaust their wrath, 

Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 

Not on the sea, not on the sea, 
Thy bark hath long been gone : 

Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 
Bow down my head alone ! 

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,° 

When last I pressed thy lip ; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock, 

Impelled thy gallant ship. 

Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now 

Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 
'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou 

Should linger on the main. 

And since I now remember thee 

In darkness and in dread, 
As in those hours of revelry 

Which mirth and music sped ; 



30 



MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART 35 

Do thou, amid the fair white walls, 

If Cadiz yet be free, 
At times from out her latticed halls 55 

Look o'er the dark blue sea ; 

Then think upon Calypso's isles, 

Endeared by days gone by ; 
To others give a thousand smiles, 

To me a single sigh. CO 

And when the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A half-formed tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace, 

Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun G5 

Some coxcomb's raillery ; 
Nor own for once thou thought'st of one, 

Who ever thinks on thee. 

Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 

When severed hearts repine, 70 

My spirit flies o'er mount and main, 

And mourns in search of thine. 

October, 1809 



MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART 



TiW-fi fx.ov, eras dyairQ 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, oh, give me back ray heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Hear my vow before I go, 
Zo>?7 fiov, ads dya.TrG>.° 

By those tresses unconfined, 
Wooed by each iEgean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 

Ziwrj /xov, ads dyawQ. 

By that lip I long to taste • 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 

Zto?^ /xov, ads dyairu). 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol, 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee? No ! 

Zw77 /xov, ads dyawu). 

Athens, 1810 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR- 
SONG 

" AeOre 7ra?Ses rdv K WKhr\vu)v " 

Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 

The glorious hour 's gone forth, 
And, worthy of such ties, 

Display who gave us birth. 



TRANSLATION, THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR-SONG 37 



Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
In arms against the foe, 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
In a river past our feet. 

Then manfully despising 

The Turkish tyrant's yoke, 
Let your country see you rising, 

And all her chains are broke. 
Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 

Behold the coming strife ! 
Hellenes of past ages, 

Oh, start again to life ! 
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 

Your sleep, oh, join with me ! 
And the seven -hilled city seeking, 

Fight, conquer, till we're free. 



Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
In arms against the foe, 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
In a river past our feet. 

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 
Lethargic dost thou lie % 

Awake, and join thy numbers 
With Athens, old ally ! 

Leonidas recalling, 

That chief of ancient song, 



38 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Who saved ye once from falling, 

The terrible ! the strong ! 
Who made that bold diversion 

In old Thermopylae, 
And warring with the Persian 

To keep his country free ; 
With his three hundred waging 

The battle, long he stood, 
And like a lion raging, 

Expired in seas of blood. 



Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
In arms against the foe, 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
In a river past our feet. 

1811 



TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG,° 

" Miralvw fx^a-' Yt6 Trepi[36\i 
'Q,paioT&TT) XcuSt?," etc. 

I enter thy garden of roses, 

Beloved and fair Haide'e, 
Each morning where Flora reposes, 

For surely I see her in thee. 
Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee, 

Receive this foncl truth from my tongue, 
Which utters its song to adore thee, 

Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, 



AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE 39 

Through her eyes, through her every feature, 
Shines the soul of the young Haide'e. 

But the loveliest garden grows hateful 

When Love has abandoned the bowers ; 
Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, 15 

That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
The poison, when poured from the chalice, 

Will deeply embitter the bowl ; 
But when drunk to escape from thy malice, 

The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 20 

Too cruel ! in vain I implore thee 

My heart from these horrors to save : 
Will nought to my bosom restore thee 1 

Then open the gates of the grave. 

As the chief who to combat advances 25 

Secure of his conquest before, 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 

Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish 

By pangs which a smile would dispel % 30 

Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish, 

For torture repay me too well ? 
Now sad is the garden of roses, 

Beloved but false Haidee ! 
There Flora all withered reposes, 35 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 

1811 



AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE! 

Away, away, ye notes of woe ! 

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Or I must flee from hence — for, oh ! 

I dare not trust those sounds again. 
To me they speak of brighter days — 

But lull the chords, for now, alas ! 
I must not think, I may not gaze, 

On what I am — on what I was. 

The voice that made those sounds more sweet 

Is hushed, and all their charms are fled ; 
And now their softest notes repeat 

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 
Yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee, 

Beloved dust ! since dust thou art ; 
And all that once was harmony 

Is worse than discord to my heart ! 

; Tis silent all ! — but on my ear 

The well-remembered echoes thrill ; 
I hear a voice I would not hear, 

A voice that now might well be still : 
Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake ; 

Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 
Till consciousness will vainly wake 

To listen, though the dream be flown. 

Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep, : 

Thou art but now a lovely dream ■ 
A star that trembled o'er the deep, 

Then turned from earth its tender beam. 
But he who through life's dreary way 

Must pass, when heaven is veiled in wrath, 
Will long lament the vanished ray 

That scattered gladness o'er his path. 

December 6, 1811 






ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE 41 



ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE 

One struggle more, and I am free 

From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; 
One last long sigh to love and thee,° 

Then back to busy life again. 
It suits me well to mingle now 

With things that never pleased before : 
Though every joy is fled below, 

What future grief can touch me more ? 

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring ; 

Man was not form'd to live alone : 
I'll be that light, unmeaning thing 

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 
It was not thus in days more clear, 

It never would have been, but thou 
Hast fled, and left me lonely here ; 

Thou'rt nothing — all are nothing now. 

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 

The smile that Sorrow fain would wear 
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, 

Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 

The heart, — the heart is lonely still ! 

On many a lone and lovely night 

It soothed to gaze upon the sky ; 
For then I deem'd the heavenly light ■ 

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, ' 

When sailing o'er the iEgean wave, 
" Now Thyrza gazes on that moon " — 

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave ! 

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, 

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 
"'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, 

" That Thyrza cannot know my pains." 
Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 

A boon 'tis idle then to give, 
Relenting Nature vainly gave 

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live ! 40 

My Thyrza's pledge in better clays, 

When love and life alike were new ! 
How different now thou meet'st my gaze ! 

How tinged by time with sorrow's hue ! 
The heart that gave itself with thee 45 

Is silent — ah, were mine as still ! 
Though cold as e'en the dead can be, 

It feels, it sickens with the chill. 

Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 

Though painful, welcome to my breast ! 50 

Still, still preserve that love unbroken, 

Or break the heart to which thou'rt press'd. 
Time tempers love, but not removes, 

More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 
Oh ! what are thousand living loves 55 

To that which cannot quit the dead ? 

EUTHANASIA 

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 

The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, „. 



EUTHANASIA 43 

Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! 

No band of friends or heirs be there, 5 

To weep, or wish, the coming blow : 
No maiden, with dishevelled hair, 

To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 

But silent let me sink to earth, 

With no officious mourners near ; 10 

I would not mar one hour of mirth, 

Nor startle friendship with a fear. 

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 

Could nobly check its useless sighs, 
Might then exert its latest power 15 

In her who lives, and him who dies. 

'Twere sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 

Thy features still serene to see : 
Forgetful of its struggles past, 

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 20 

But vain the wish — for Beauty still 

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath ; 

And woman's tears, produced at will, 
Deceive in life, unman in death. 

Then lonely be my latest hour, 25 

Without regret, without a groan ; 
For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 

And pain been transient or unknown. 

"Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 

Where all have gone, and all must go ! 30 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

To be the nothing that I was 
Ere born to life and living woe ! 

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 

And know, whatever thou hast been, 
Tis something better not to be. 



IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN 

If sometimes in the haunts of men 

Thine image from my breast may fade, 
The lonely hour presents again 

The semblance of thy gentle shade : 
And now that sad and silent hour 

Thus much of thee can still restore, 
And sorrow unobserved may pour 

The plaint she dare not speak before. 

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile 

I waste one thought I owe to thee, 
And, self-condemned, appear to smile, 

Unfaithful to thy memory ! 
Nor deem that memory less dear, 

That then I seem not to repine ; 
I would not fools should overhear 

One sigh that should be wholly thine. 

If not the goblet passed un quaffed, 

It is not drained to banish care ; 
The cup must hold a deadlier draught, 

That brings a Lethe for despair. 
And could Oblivion set my soul 

From all her troubled visions free, 



THE CHAIN I GAVE 45 

I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 

That drowned a single thought of thee. 

For wert thou vanished from my mind, 25 

Where could my vacant bosom turn 1 
And who would then remain behind 

To honor thine abandoned urn 1 
No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 

That last dear duty to fulfil ; 30 

Though all the world forget beside, 

'Tis meet that I remember still. 

For well I know, that such had been 

Thy gentle care for him, who now 
Unmourned shall quit this mortal scene, 35 

Where noue regarded him, but thou : 
And, oh ! I feel in that was given 

A blessing never meant for me ; 
Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven, 

For earthly love to merit thee. 40 

March 14, 1812 

THE CHAIN I GAVE 

FROM THE TURKISH 

The chain I gave was fair to view, 

The lute I added sweet in sound ; 
The heart that offered both was true, 

And ill deserved the fate it found. 

These gifts were charm'd by secret spell, 5 

Thy truth in absence to divine ; 
And they have done their duty well — 

Alas ! they could not teach thee thine. 






46 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

That chain was firm in every link, 

But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 10 

That lute was sweet — till thou couldst think 

In other hands its notes were such. 

Let him who from thy neck unbound 
The chain which shivered in his grasp, 

Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 15 

Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too ; 

The chain is broke, the music mute. 
'Tis past — to them and thee adieu — 

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 20 

ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, SATUR- 
DAY, OCT. 10, 1812° 

In one dread night our city saw, and sighed, 
Bowed to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride ; 
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 

Ye who beheld, (oh ! sight admired and mourned, 
W T hose radiance mocked the ruin it adorned !) 
Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven, 
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven ; 
Saw the long column of revolving flames 
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
While thousands, thronged around the burning dome, 
Shrank back appalled, and trembled for their home, 
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own. 



ADDRESS 47 

Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 15 

Usurped the Muse's realm, and marked her fall ; 

Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 

Reared where once rose the mightiest in our isle, 

Know the same favor which the former knew, 

A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and you ? 20 

Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene, 
And bids the Drama be where she hath been : 
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 25 

Indulge our honest pride, and say, How Well I 

As soars this fane to emulate the last, 
Oh ! might we draw our omens from the past, 
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 30 

On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art° 
O'erwhelmed the gentlest, stormed the sternest heart. 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
Sighed his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : 35 

But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, 
That only waste their odors o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claimed and claims — nor you refuse 
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; 
With garlands deck your own Menander's head, 40 

Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead I 

Dear are the days which made our annals bright, 
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. 
Heirs to their labors, like all high-born heirs, 
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs ; 45 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass 

To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 

And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 

Immortal names, emblazoned on our line, 

Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn, i 

Reflect how hard the task to rival them 1 

Friends of the stage ! to whom both players and plays 
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, 
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 
The boundless power to cherish or reject ; i 

If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 
And made us blush that you forbore to blame ; 
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, 
All past reproach may present scenes refute, • 

And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! 
Oh ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws. 
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause ; 
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 
And Reason's voice be echoed back by ours I » 

This greeting o ? er, the ancient rule obeyed, 
The Drama's homage by her herald paid, 
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. 
The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! 
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, 
Still may we please — long, long may you preside ! 

TO TIME 

Time ! on whose arbitrary wing 
The varying hours must flag or fly, 



49 



Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, 
But drag or drive us on to die — 

Hail thou ! who on my birth bestow'd 

Those boons to all that know thee known ; 

Yet better I sustain thy load, 
For now I bear the weight alone. 

I would not one fond heart should share 
The bitter moments thou hast given ; 

And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare 
All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 

To them be joy or rest, on me 

Thy future ills shall press in vain ; 

I nothing owe but years to thee, 
A debt already paid in pain. 

Yet even that pain was some relief; 

It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
The active agony of grief 

Retards, but never counts the hour. 

In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight 
Would soon subside from swift to slow ; 

Thy cloud could overcast the light, 
But could not add a night to woe ; 

For them, however drear and dark, 

My soul was suited to thy sky ; 
One star alone shot forth a spark 

To prove thee — not Eternity. 

That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 
A blank, — a thing to count and curse, 



50 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Through each dull, tedious, trifling part, 
Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 

One scene even thou canst not deform ; 

The limit of thy sloth or speed, 
When future wanderers bear the storm i 

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed : 

And I can smile to think how weak 
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, 

When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 

Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 4 

SONNET TO GENEVRA 

Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, 
And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
From contemplation — where serenely wrought, 

Seems sorrow's softness .charmed from its despair — 

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, 
That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought — 

I should have deemed thee doomed to earthly care. 

With such an aspect, by his colors blent, 

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, 1 

Except that thou hast nothing to repent 
The Magdalen of Guido° saw the morn — 

Such seem'st thou, but how much more excellent ! 
With nought Remorse can claim, nor Virtue scorn. 

December 17, 1813 

SONNET TO GENEVRA 

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, 
And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC 51 

Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 
My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oh ! 5 

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 

And into mine my mother's weakness rush, 
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 
For, through thy long dark lashes low depeuding, 

The soul of melancholy Gentleness 10 

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, 

Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 
At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 

I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 

December 17, 1813 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 5 

The charm'd ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming : 

And the midnight moon is weaving 

Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 10 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 

As an infant's sleep : 
So the spirit bows before thee, 
To listen and adore thee, 

With a full but soft emotion, 15 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE 



'Tis done — but yesterday a king ! 

And armed with kings to strive — 
And now thou art a nameless thing : 

So abject — yet alive ! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Who strewed our earth with hostile bones, 

And can he thus survive? 
Since he, miscalled the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 



Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 

Who bowed so low the knee 1 
By gazing on thyself grown blind, 

Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
With might unquestioned, — power to save, 
Thine only gift hath been the grave 

To those that worshipped thee ; 
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness ! 



Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 

To after-warriors more 
Than high Philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preached before. 



w 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE 53 

That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again, 

That led them to adore 25 

Those Pagod things of sabre sway, 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 



The triumph, and the vanity, 

The rapture of the strife — 
The earthquake voice of Victory, 

To thee the breath of life ; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seemed made but to obey, 

Wherewith renown was rife — 
All quelled ! — Dark Spirit ! what must be 
The madness of thy memory ! 



The desolator desolate ! 

The victor overthrown ! 
The arbiter of others' fate 

A suppliant for his own ! 
Is it some yet imperial hope 
That with such change can calmly cope? 

Or dread of death alone 1 
To die a prince — or live a slave — ■ 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 



He who of old would rend the oak,° 
Dreamed not of the rebound ; 

Chained by the trunk he vainly broke - 
Alone — how looked he round ? 



54 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 
An equal deed hast done at length, 

And darker fate hast found : 
He fell, the forest prowlers' prey ; 
But thou must eat thy heart away ! 



The Roman, when his burning heart 

Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger — dared depart, 

In savage grandeur, home. — 
He dared depart in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke had borne, 

Yet left him such a doom ! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheld abandoned power. 



The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 

Had lost its quickening spell, 
Cast crowns for rosaries away, 

An empire for a cell ; 
A strict accountant of his beads, 
A subtle disputant on creeds, 

His dotage trifled w T ell : 
Yet better had he neither known 
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 



But thou — from thy reluctant hand 
The thunderbolt is wrung — 

Too late thou leav'st the high command 
To which thy weakness clung ; 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE 55 

All Evil Spirit as thou art, 

It is enough to grieve the heart 

To see thine own unstrung ; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 80 

The footstool of a thing so mean ; 



And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 

Who thus can hoard his own ! 
And monarchs bowed the trembling limb, 

And thanked him for a throne ! 
Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear, 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind ! 



Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 

Nor written thus in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 

Or deepen every stain : 
If thou hadst died as honor dies, 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 

To shame the world again — 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night ? 



Weighed in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
Thy scales, Mortality ! are just 

To all that pass away : 



56 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

But yet methought the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate, 

To dazzle and dismay : 
Nor deemed Contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these, the conquerors of the earth. 



And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, 

Thy still imperial bride ; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour 1 

Still clings she to thy side 1 
Must she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair, 

Thou throneless Homicide ? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, — 
'Tis worth thy vanished diadem ! 



Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,° 

And gaze upon the sea ; 
That element may meet thy smile — 

It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
Or trace with thine all idle hand 
In loitering mood upon the sand 

That Earth is now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now 
Transferred his by-word to thy brow. 



Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage 
What thoughts will there be thine, 

While brooding in thy prisoned rage 1 
But one — " The world tvas mine ! " 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE 57 

Unless, like he of Babylon, 

All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 

Life will not long confine 
That spirit poured so widely forth — 
So long obeyed — so little worth i 135 



Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, 

Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
And share with him, the unforgiven, 

His vulture and his rock I 
Foredoomed by God — by man accurst, 
And that last act,° though not thy worst, 

The very Fiend's arch mock ; 
He in his fa]l preserved his pride, 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 



There was a day — there was an hour, 

While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine — 
When that immeasurable power 

Un sated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame 
Than gathers round Marengo's name 

And gilded thy decline, 
Through the long twilight of all time, 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 



But thou forsooth must be a king, 
And don the purple vest, — 

As if that foolish robe could wring 
Remembrance from thy breast. 



BYBON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Where is that, faded garment 1 where 
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 

The star, the string, the crest ? 
Vain fro ward child of empire ! say, 
Are all thy playthings snatched away] 



"Where may the wearied eye repose 

When gazing on the Great ; 
Where neither guilty glory glows, 

Nor despicable state? 
Yes — one — the first — the last — the best - 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeathed the name of Washington, 
To make men blush there was but. one ! 



160 



HEBREW MELODIES 
SHE WALKS m BEAUTY 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 

Had half impaired the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress, 



HEBREW MELODIES 59 

Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 10 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 15 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent ! 



THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept, 
The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 

Which Music hallow'd while she wept 

O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, — 
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven ! 5 

It soften'd men of iron mould, 

It gave them virtues not their own ; 

No ear so dull, no soul so cold, 

That felt not, fired not to the tone, 

Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne. 10 

It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God ; 
It made our gladden'd valleys ring, 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 

Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode ! 15 
Since then, though heard on earth no more, 

Devotion and her daughter Love, 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above, 

In dreams that day's broad light cannot remove. 20 



60 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving love endears ; 
If there the cherished heart be fond, 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres ! 

How sweet this very hour to die ! 
To soar from earth and find all fears 

Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 

It must be so : 'tis not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink ; 
And striving to o'erleap the gulf, 

Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
Oh ! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares, 
With them the immortal waters drink, 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ! 



THE WILD GAZELLE 

The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 
Exulting yet may bound, 

And drink from all the living rills 
That gush on holy ground ; 

Its airy step and glorious eye° 

May glance in tameless transport by. 

A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 
Hath Judah witness'd there, 

And o'er her scenes of lost delight 
Inhabitants more fair. 



HEBREW MELODIES 61 

The cedars wave on Lebanon, 

But Judah's statelier maids are gone ! 

More blest each palm that shades those plains 

Than Israel's scatter'd race ; 
For, taking root, it there remains 15 

In solitary grace : 
It cannot quit its place of birth, 
It will not live in other earth. 

But we must wander witheringly, 

In other lands to die ; 20 

And where our fathers' ashes be, 

Our own may never lie : 
Our temple hath not left a stone, 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH! WEEP FOR THOSE 

Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, 
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell ; 
Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the godless dwell ! 

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet 1 5 

And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet 1 

And Judah's melody once more rejoice 

The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice 1 

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! K 

The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
Mankind their country — Israel but the grave ! 



62 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



ON JORDAN'S BANKS 

On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray, 

On Zion's hill the False One's votaries pray, 

The Baal-adorer ° bows on Sinai's steep — 

Yet there — even there — God ! Thy thunders sleep : 

There — where Thy finger scoreh'd the tablet stone ! 5 
There — where Thy shadow to Thy people shone ! 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
Thyself — none living see and not expire ! 

Oh ! in the lightning let Thy glance appear ; 

Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear ! 10 

How long by tyrants shall Thy land be trod ? 

How long Thy temple worshipless, God 1 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER 

Since our country, our God — Oh, my sire ! 
Demand that thy daughter expire ; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now ! 



And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
And the mountains behold me no more : 
If the hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 






And of this, oh, my father ! be sure — 

That the blood of thy child is as pure 10 

As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 

And the last thought that soothes me below. 






HEBREW MELODIES 63 

Though the virgins of Salein lament, 

Be the judge and the hero unbent i 

I have won the great battle for thee, 15 

And my father and country are free i 

When this blood of thy giving hath gushed, 

When the voice that thou lovest is hushed, 

Let my memory still be thy pride, 

And forget not I smiled as I died J 20 



SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM 

Oh ! snatched away in beauty's bloom, 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 

But on thy turf shall roses rear 

Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom. 5 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 
And feed deep thought with many a dream, 

And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 

Fond wretch ! as if her step disturbed the dead ! 10 

Away 1 we know that tears are vain, 

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress : 

Will this unteach us to complain ? 
Or make one mourner weep the less ? 

And thou — who tell'st me to forget, 15 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 



64 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



MY SOUL IS DARK 

My soul is dark — Oh ! quickly string 

The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
And let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
If in this heart a hope be dear, 

That sound shall charm it forth again : 
If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 

'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. 



But bid the strain be wild and deep, 

Nor let thy notes of joy be first. 
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 

Or else this heavy heart will burst ; 
For it hath been by sorrow nursed, 

And ached in sleepless silence long ; 
And now 'tis doomed to know the worst, 

And break at once — or yield to song. 



I SAW THEE WEEP 

I saw thee weep — the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
And then methought it did appear 

A violet dropping dew. 
I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze 

Beside thee ceased to shine ; 
It could not match the living rays 

That filled that glance of thine. 



HEBREW MELODIES 65 

As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye, 10 

Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart ; 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 15 

That lightens o'er the heart. 



THY DAYS ARE DONE 

Thy days are done, thy fame begun ; 

Thy country's strains record 
The triumphs of her chosen son, 

The slaughters of his sword ! 
The deeds he did, the fields he won, 

The freedom he restored ! 



Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 
Thou shalt not taste of death ! 

The generous blood that flowed from thee 
Disdained to sink beneath : 

Within our veins its currents be, 
Thy spirit on our breath. 

Thy name, our charging hosts along, 

Shall be the battle-word ! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song 

From virgin voices poured ! 
To weep would do thy glory wrong : 

Thou shalt not be deplored. 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



SAUL° 

Thou whose spell can raise the dead, 
Bid the Prophet's form appear. 

"Samuel, raise thy buried head! 
King, behold the phantom seer ! " 
Earth yawned ; he stood the centre of a cloud : 
Sight changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. 
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His hand was withered, and his veins were dry ; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glittered there, 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ; 
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame, 
Like caverned winds, the hollow accents came. 
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 



" Why is my sleep disquieted? 
Who is he that calls the dead ? 
Is it thou, King? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold : 
Such are mine ; and such shall be 
Thine to-morrow, when with me : 
Ere the coming day is done, 
Such shalt thou be, such thy son.° 
Fare thee well, but for a day, 
Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, 
Pierced by shafts of many a bow; 
And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the house of Saul ! " 



HEBREW MELODIES 67 



SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE 

Waeeioes and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
Pierce me iu leading the host of the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path : 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! ■ 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 

Farewell to others, but never we part, 
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! 
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, 
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day ! 



'ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER" 

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 

And health and youth possess'd me ; 
My goblets blush'd from every vine, 

And lovely forms caress'd me ; 
I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 

And felt my soul grow tender ; 
All earth can give, or mortal prize, 

Was mine of regal splendor. 

I strive to number o'er what days 

Remembrance can discover, 
Which all that life or earth displays 

Would lure me to live over. 



68 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 
Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 

And not a trapping deck'd my power 
That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 

The serpent of the field, by art 

And spells, is won from harming ; 
But that which coils around the heart, 

Oh ! who hath power of charming 1 
It will not list to Wisdom's lore, 

Nor Music's voice can lure it ; 
But there it stings forevermore 

The soul that must endure it. 



WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING CLAY 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 

Ah ! whither strays the immortal mind ? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay, 

But leaves its darkened dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 5 

By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

Eternal, boundless, undecayed, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 10 

All, all in earth, or skies displayed, 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 15 

And all that was, at once appears. 



HEBREW MELODIES 69 

Before Creation peopled earth, 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
And where the furthest heaven had birth, 

The spirit trace its rising track. 20 

And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
While sun is quenched or system breaks, 

Fixed in its own eternity. 

Above or love, hope, hate, or fear, 25 

It lives all passionless and pure : 
An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing, 

O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly ; 30 
A nameless and eternal thing, 

Forgetting what it was to die. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAR 

The King was on his throne, 

The satraps thronged the hall ; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 

In Judah deemed divine — 
Jehovah's vessel hold 

The godless Heathen's wine. 

In that same hour and hall, 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 

And wrote as if on sand : 
The fingers of a man : — 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran, 

And traced them like a wand.° 

The monarch saw, and shook, 

And bade no more rejoice ; . 
All bloodless waxed his look, 

And tremulous his voice. 
" Let the men of lore appear, 

The wisest of the earth, 
And expound the words of fear, 

Which mar our royal mirth." 

Chaldea's seers are good, 

But here they have no skill ; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore ; 
But now they were not sage, 

They saw — but knew no more. 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the king's command, 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in view ; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 

" Belshazzar's grave is made, 
His kingdom passed away, 
He, in the balance weighed, 



HEBREW MELODIES 71 

Is light and worthless clay ; 
The shroud, his robe of state, 45 

His canopy the stone ;- 
The Mede is at his gate ! 

The Persian on his throne ! " 



SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS 

Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! 

Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far, 

That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel, 

How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 

So gleams the past, the light of other days, 

Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays ■ 

A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold, 

Distinct, but distant — clear, but oh, how cold ! 



WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
DEEM'ST IT TO BE 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, 

I need not have wander'd from far Galilee ; 

It was but abjuring my creed to efface 

The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race. 

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 
If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free ! 
If the exile on earth is an outcast on high, 
Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, 
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know ; 10 
In His hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine 
The land and the life which for Him I resign. 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE 

Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding ; 
Revenge is lost in agony, 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou 1 

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading : 
Ah ! couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now, 

Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 

And is she dead ? — and did they dare 

Obey my frenzy's jealous raving 1 
My wrath but doom'd my own despair : 

The sword that smote her o'er me waving. 
But thou art cold, my murder'd love ! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars alone above, 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 

She 's gone, who shared my diadem ; 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing ; 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem, 

Whose leaves for me alone are blooming ; 
And mine 's the guilt, and mine the hell, 

This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
And I have earn'd those tortures well, 

Which unconsumed are still consuming ! 



HEBREW MELODIES 73 

ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF 
JERUSALEM BY TITUS 

From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome, 
I beheld thee, oh Zion ! when rendered to Rome : 
'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall 
Flashed back on the last glance I gave to thy walL 

I looked for thy temple, I looked for my home, 5 

And forgot for a moment my bondage to come ; 

I beheld bnt the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 

And the fast-fettered hands that made vengeance in vain. 

On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 

Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 10 

While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 

Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine. 

And now on that mountain I stood on that day, 
But I marked not the twilight beam melting away ; . 
Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, 15 
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head ! 

But the gods of the pagans shall never profane 

The shrine where Jehovah disdained not to reign ; 

And scattered and scorned as thy people may be, 

Our worship, oh Father ! is only for thee. 20 

BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT 
DOWN AND WEPT 

We sat down and wept by the waters 

Of Babel, and thought of the day 
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 



74 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Made Salem's high places his prey ; 
And ye, oh her desolate daughters ! 
Were scattered all weeping away. 

While sadly we gazed on the river 
Which rolled on in freedom below, 

They demanded the song ; but, oh never 
That triumph the Stranger shall know ! 

May this right hand be withered for ever, 
Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 

On the willow that harp is suspended, 
Oh Salem ! its sounds should be free ; 

And the hour when thy glories were ended 
But left me that token of thee : 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 



BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON 

In the valley of waters we wept on the day 
When the host of the Stranger made Salem his prey ; 
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay, 
And our hearts were so full of the land far away ! 

The song they demanded in vain — it lay still 5 

In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill ; 
They called for the harp — but our blood they shall spill 
Ere our right hands shall teach them one tone of their skill. 

All stringlessly hung in the willow's sad tree, 
As dead as her dead-leaf, those mute harps must be : 10 

Our hands may be fettered, — our hearts still are free 
For our God, and our glory, and Zion, oh Thee I 



HEBREW MELODIES 75 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green 5 

That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 10 

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 15 

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 

The lances uplifted, the trumpet unblown. 20 

And the widows of Ashur° are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 
A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME° 

FEOM JOB 

A spirit passed before me : I beheld 

The face of immortality unveiled — 

Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine — 

And there it stood, — all formless — but divine : 

Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake ; 

And as my damp hair stiffened, thus it spake : 

" Is man more just than God ? Is man more pure 
Than He who deems even seraphs insecure? 
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust ! 
The moth survives you, and are ye more just ? 
Things of a day ! you wither ere the night, 
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light ! " 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

" THERE 'S NOT A JOY THE WORLD CAN GIVE " 

" O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex animo : quater 
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." 

— Gray's Poemata. 

There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, 
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay ; 
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades 

so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. 



NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL 11 



Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happi- 
ness 5 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess : 
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain 
The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch 



Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes 

down ; 
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ; 10 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice 

appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the 

breast, 
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope 

of rest ; 
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreathe, 15 

All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath. 

Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have been, 

Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene ; 

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though 

they be, 
So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to 

me. 20 

March, 1815 

NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL 

FROM THE FRENCH 

Farewell to the land, where the gloom of my glory 
Arose and o'ershadowed the earth with her name — 



78 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

She abandons me now — bnt the page of her story, 

The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame. 

I have warred with a world which vanquished me only 5 

When the meteor of conquest allured me too far ; 

I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, 

The last single captive to millions in war.° 

Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem crowned me, 

I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, — 10 

But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, 

Decayed in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 

Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 

In strife with the storm, when their battles were won — 

Then the eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, 15 

Had still soared with eyes fixed on victory's sun ! 

Farewell to thee, France ! — but when Liberty rallies 

Once more in thy regions, remember me then, — 

The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys ; 

Though withered, thy tear will unfold it again — 20 

Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 

And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — 

There are links which must break in the chain that has bound 

us, 
Then turn thee and call on the chief of thy choice t 

July 25, 1815 



FROM THE FRENCH 

Must thou go, my glorious chief, 
Severed from thy faithful few ? 

Who can tell thy warrior's grief, 
Maddening o'er that long adieu ? 

Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, 



FROM THE FRENCH 79 

Dear as both have been to me — 
What are they to all I feel, 
With a soldier's faith for thee ? 

Idol of the soldier's soul ! 

First in fight, but mightiest now ; 10 

Many could a world control ; 

Thee alone no doom can bow. 
By thy side for years I dared 

Death ; and envied those who fell, 
When their dying shout was heard, 15 

Blessing him they served so well. 

Would that I were cold with those, 

Since this hour I live to see ; 
When the doubts of coward foes 

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, 20 

Dreading each should set thee free I 

Oh ! although in dungeons pent, 
All their chains were light to me, 

Gazing on thy soul unbent. 

Would the sycophants of him 25 

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, 
Were his borrowed glories dim, 

In his native darkness share ? 
Were that world this hour his own, 

All thou calmly dost resign, SO 

Could he purchase with that throne 

Hearts like those which still are thine? 

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu ! 

Never did I droop before ; 
Never to my sovereign sue, 35 

As his foes I now implore : 



80 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

All I ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave ; 
Sharing by the hero's side 

His fall, his exile, and his grave. 

1815 

ODE FROM THE FRENCH 

We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 

Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew ; 

There 'twas shed, but is not sunk — 

Rising from each gory trunk, 

Like the waterspout from ocean, 

With a strong and growing motion, 

It soars and mingles in the air, 

With that of lost La Bddoyere, 

With that of him whose honor'd grave 

Contains the " bravest of the brave." ° 

A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 

But shall return to whence it rose ; 

When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder — 

Never yet was heard such thunder 

As then shall shake the world with wonder — 

Never yet was seen such lightning 

As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning ! 

Like the Wormwood star foretold 

By the sainted Seer° of old, 

Showering down a fiery flood, 

Turning rivers into blood. 

The chief has fallen ! but not by you, 
Vanquishers of Waterloo ! 
When the soldier-citizen 
Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men — 
Save in deeds that led them on 



ODE FROM THE FRENCH 81 

Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son — 

Who, of all the despots banded, 

With that youthful chief competed 1 

Who could boast o'er Trance defeated, £0 

Till lone Tyranny commanded ? 

Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 

The hero sunk into the king 1 

Then he fell : — so perish all 

Who would men by man enthrall ! 35 

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume, 

Whose realm refused thee even a tomb, 

Better hadst thou still been leading 

France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, 

Thau sold thyself to death and shame 40 

For a meanly royal name ; 

Such as he of Naples wears, 

Who thy blood-bought title bears. 

Little didst thou deem, when dashing 

On thy war-horse through the ranks, 45 

Like a stream which burst its banks, 

While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, 

Shone and shiver'd fast around thee, 

Of the fate at last which found thee ! 

Was that haughty plume laid low 50 

By a slave's dishonest blow ? 

Once, as the moon sways o'er the tide, 

It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide ; 

Through the smoke-created night 

Of the black and sulphurous fight, 55 

The soldier raised his seeking eye 

To catch that crest's ascendancy, 

And, as it onward rolling rose, 

So moved his heart upon our foes. 

There, where death's brief pang was quickest, 60 



82 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 

Of the eagle's burning crest — 
There with thunder-clouds to fan her, 

Who could then her wing arrest — 
Victory beaming from her breast 1 
While the broken line enlarging 

Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
There be sure was Murat charging ! 

There he ne'er shall charge again ! 

O'er glories gone the invaders march, 

Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch ; 

But let Freedom rejoice, 

With her heart in her voice ; 

But her hand on her sword, 

Doubly shall she be adored ; 

France hath twice too well been taught 

The "moral lesson" dearly bought ; 

Her safety sits not on a throne, 

With Capet or Napoleon ! 

But in equal rights and laws, 

Hearts and hands in one great cause — 

Freedom such as God hath given 

Unto all beneath His heaven, 

With their breath, and from their birth, 

Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth ; 

With a fierce and lavish hand 

Scattering nations' wealth like sand; 

Pouring nations' blood like water, 

In imperial seas of slaughter ! 

But the heart and the mind, 
And the voice of mankind, 
Shall arise in communion — 



FARE THEE WELL 83 

And who shall resist that proud union ? 

The time is past when swords subdued ; 95 

Man may die — the soul 's renew'd. 

Even in this low world of care 

Freedom ne'er shall want an heir j 

Millions breathe but to inherit 

Her forever bounding spirit. 100 

When once more her hosts assemble, 

Tyrants shall believe — and tremble. 

Smile they at this idle threat 1 

Crimson tears will follow yet. 



FARE THEE WELL 

" Alas ! they had heen friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 
****** 
But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining — 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 
A dreary sea now flows between. 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
The marks of that which once hath been." 

— Coleridge's Christabel. 

Fare thee well ! — and if for ever, 

Still for ever, fare thee well : 
Even though unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain, 



84 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know again : 

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
Every inmost thought could show ! 

Then thou would'st at last discover 
'Twas not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend thee — 
Though it smile upon the blow, 

Even its praises must offend thee, 
Founded on another's woe : 

Though my many faults defaced me, 
Could no other arm be found, 

Than the one which once embraced me, 
To inflict a cureless wound ? 

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ; 

Love may sink by slow decay, 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away : 

Still thine own its life retaineth — 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat ■ 

And the undying thought which paineth 
Is — that we no more may meet. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 
Than the wail above the dead ; 

Both shall live, but every morrow 
Wake us from a widowed bed. 



FARE THEE WELL 85 

And when thou would solace gather, 

When our child's first accents flow, 
Wilt thou teach her to say " Father ! " 35 

Though his care she must forego 1 

AVhen her little hands shall press thee, 

When her lip to thine is pressed, 
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 

Think of him thy love had blessed ! 40 

Should her lineaments resemble 

Those thou never more may'st see, 
Then thy heart will softly tremble 

With a pulse yet true to me. 

All my faults perchance thou knowest, 45 

All my madness none can know ; 
All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 

Wither, yet with thee they go. 

Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 50 

Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 

Even my soul forsakes me now : 

But 'tis done — all words are idle — 

Words from me are vainer still ; 
But the thoughts we cannot bridle 55 

Force their way without the will. 

Fare thee well ! — thus disunited, 

Torn from every nearer tie, 
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, 

More than this I scarce can die. fiO 

March 17, 181P> 



86 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA 



When all around grew drear and dark, 
And Reason half withheld her ray, 

And Hope but shed a dying spark 
Which more misled my lonely way ; 

In that deep midnight of the mind, 
And that internal strife of heart, 

When dreading to be deemed too kind, 
The weak despair, the cold depart ; 

When fortune changed, and Love fled far, 
And Hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, 

Thou wert the solitary star 

Which rose and set not to the last. 

Oh ! blest be thine unbroken light ! 

That watched me as a seraph's eye, 
And stood between me and the night, 

For ever shining sweetly nigh. 

And when the cloud upon us came, 
Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray, 

Then purer spread its gentle flame, 
And dashed the darkness all away. 

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, 

And teach it what to brave or brook — 

There's more in one soft word of thine 
Than in the world's defied rebuke. 

Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, 
That still unbroke, though gently bent, 

Still waves with fond fidelity 
Its boughs above a monument. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILL ON 87 

The winds might rend, the skies might pour, 
But there thou wert, and still would'st be 30 

Devoted in the stormiest hour 

To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 

But thou shalt know no blight, 

Whatever fate on me may fall ; 
For Heaven in sunshine will requite 35 

The kind, and thee the most of all, 

Then let the ties of baffled love 

Be broken, — thine will never break ; 

Thy heart can feel, but will not move ; 

Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 40 

And these, when all was lost beside, 
Were found and still are fixed in thee ; 

And bearing still a breast so tried, 
Earth is no desert even to me. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON ° 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 

The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 

And when thy sons to fetters are consigned — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 

And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 

By Bonnivard ! — May none these marks efface ! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



My hair is gray but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night, 
As men's have grown from sudden fears. 
My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are banned, and barred — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffered chains and courted death ; 
That father perished at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth and one in age, 
Finished as they had begun, 

Proud of Persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have sealed, 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; — 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 89 



There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 
There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother drooped and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 



They chained us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone : 
We could not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight : 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fettered in hand, but joined in heart, 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

7 Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To barken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon stone, 

A grating sound, not full and free, 
As they of yore were wont to be : 
It might be fancy, but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 



I was the eldest of the three, 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best — 

And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved, 

Because our mother's brow was given 

To him, with eyes as blue as heaven — 
For him my soul was sorely moved : 

And truly might it be distressed 

To see such bird in such a nest ; 

For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 

A sunset till its summer 's gone, 
Its sleepless summer of long light, 

The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 
And thus he was as pure and bright, 

And in his natural spirit gay, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILL ON 91 

With tears for nought but others' ills, 

And then they flowed like mountain rills, 

Unless he could assuage the woe 90 

Which he abhorred to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind, 

But formed to combat with his kind ; 

Strong in his frame, and of a mood 

Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 95 

And perished in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit withered with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in so0th° did mine : 100 

But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had followed there the deer and wolf ; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 105 

And fettered feet the worst of ills. 



Lake Leman° lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave inthrals : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave, 
Below the surface of the lake, 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay. 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knocked ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray- 
Wash through the bars when winds were high, 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rocked, 
And I have felt it shake, unshocked, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 



I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined, 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moistened many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow men 
Like brutes within an iron den ; 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILL ON 93 

He died — and they unlocked his chain, 

And scooped for him a shallow grave 150 

Even from the cold earth of our cave. 

I begged them, as a boon, to lay 

His corse in dust whereon the day 

Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 

But then within my brain it wrought, 155 

That even in death his freeborn breast 

In such a dungeon could not rest. 

I might have spared my idle prayer — 

They coldly laughed — and laid him there : 

The flat and turfless earth above 160 

The being we so much did love ; 

His empty chain above it leant, 

Such murder's fitting monument ! 



But he, the favorite and the flower, 

Most cherished since his natal hour, 165 

His mother's image in fair face, 

The infant love of all his race, 

His martyred father's dearest thought, 

My latest care, for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 170 

Less wretched now, and one day free ; 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was withered on the stalk away. 175 

Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmixed with such — but sure and slow : 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright ; 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise, 

For I was sunk in silence — • lost 

In this last loss, of all the most ; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 

I listened, but I could not hear ; 

I called, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I called, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rushed to him : — I found him not, 

I only stirred in this black spot, 

i" only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 



THE PRISONER OF CHILL ON 95 

The last, tlie sole, the dearest link 215 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to mj failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 220 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, w T hen we know 225 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 230 



What next befell me then and there 

I know not well — I never knew — 
First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist,® 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray ; 
It was not night — it was not day, 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vacancy absorbing space, 
And fixedness without a place ; 
There were no stars, no earth, no time, 
No check, no change, no good, no crime, 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 



A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ean over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track ; 
I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done, 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perched, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree • 
A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand things, 

And seemed to say them all for me ! 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seemed like me to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate, 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again, 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 97 

I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280 

But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 

For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 285 
Which made me both to weep and smile — 
I sometimes deemed that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ■ 
But then at last away it flew, 

And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 290 

For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 295 

While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 



A kind of change came in my fate, 300 

My keepers grew compassionate ; 

I know not what had made them so, 

They were inured to sights of woe, 

But so it was : — my broken chain 

With links unfastened did remain, 305 

And it was liberty to stride 

Along my cell from side to side, 

And up and down, and then athwart, 

And tread it over every part ; 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun, 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed, 
My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 



I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all 

Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child, no sire, no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery ; 
I thought of this, and I was glad, 
For thought of them had made me mad ; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barred windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high, 
The quiet of a loving eye. 



I saw them, and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in frame ; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below, 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channelled rock and broken bush ; 



THE PRISONER OF CHILL ON 99 

I saw the white- walled distant town, 

And whiter sails go skimming down \ 340 

And then there was a little isle, 

Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seemed no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 345 

But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 350 

The fish swam by the castle wall, 
And they seemed joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seemed to fly ; 355 

And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again, 

The darkness of my dim abode 360 

Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave, 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
And yet my glance, too much oppressed, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 365 



It might be months, or years, or days, 

I kept no count, I took no note, 
" I had no hope my eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



At last men came to set me free, 370 

I asked not why, and recked not where ; 

It was at length the same to me, 

Fettered or fetterless to be, 
I learned to love despair. 

And thus when they appeared at last, 375 

And all my bonds aside were cast, 

These heavy walls to me had grown 

A hermitage and all my own ! 

And half I felt as they were come 

To tear me from a second home : 380 

With spiders I had friendship made, 

And watched them in their sullen trade, 

Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 

And why should I feel less than they 1 

We were all inmates of one place, 385 

And I, the monarch of each race, 

Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 

In quiet we had learned to dwell ; 

My very chains and I grew friends, 

So much a long communion tends 390 

To make us what we are : — even I 

Regained my freedom with a sigh. 



DARKNESS 

I had a dream, which was not all a dream. 

The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars 

Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 

Morn came and went — ■ and came, and brought no day, 

And men forgot their passions in the dread 

Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 



DARKNESS 101 

Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light : 

And they did live by watchfires — and the thrones, 10 

The palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 

The habitations of all things which dwell, 

Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 

And men were gathered round their blazing homes 

To look once more into each other's face ; 15 

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 

Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch : 

A fearful hope was all the world contained ; 

Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 

They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 20 

Extinguished with a crash — and all was black. 

The brows of men by the despairing light 

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 

The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 

And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 25 

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled ; 

And others hurried to and fro, and fed 

Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up 

With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 

The pall of a past world ; and then again 30 

With curses cast them down upon the dust, 

And gnashed their teeth and howled : the wild birds shrieked, 

And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 

And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 

Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawled 35 

And twined themselves among the multitude, 

Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food : 

And War, which for a moment was no more, 

Did glut himself again ; — a meal was bought 

With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 40 

Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 

All earth was but one thought — and that was death, 

Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 

Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 

The meagre by the meagre were devoured, 

Even dogs assailed their masters, all save one, 

And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 

The birds and beasts and famished men at bay, 

Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 

Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food, 

But with a piteous and perpetual moan, 

And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 

Which answered not with a caress — he died. 

The crowd was famished by degrees ; but two 

Of an enormous city did survive, 

And they were enemies : they met beside 

The dying embers of an altar-place 

Where had been heape'd a mass of holy things 

For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 

And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands 

The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 

Blew for a little life, and made a flame 

Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 

Each other's aspects — saw, and shrieked, and died — 

Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 

Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, 

The populous and the powerful was a lump, 

Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — 

A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 

The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, 

And nothing stirred within their silent depths • 

Ships sailoiiess lay rotting on the sea, 

And their masts fell down piecemeal ■ as they dropped 

They slept on the abyss without a surge — 

The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave, 



MONOD Y 103 

The Moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 

The winds were withered in the stagnant air, 80 

And the clouds perished ; Darkness had no need 

Of aid from them — She was the Universe. 

Diodati, July, 1816 



LiONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. 
R. B. SHERIDAN 

SPOKEN AT DRTJRY-LANE THEATRE 

When the last sunshine of expiring day 

In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 

Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 

Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 

With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 5 

While Nature makes that melancholy pause, 

Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 

Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, — 

Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, 

The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep, 10 

A holy concord, and a bright regret, 

A glorious sympathy with suns that set 1 

'Tis not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer woe, 

Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 

Felt without bitterness, but full and clear, 15 

A sweet dejection, a transparent tear, 

Unmixed with worldly grief or selfish stain, 

Shed without shame, and secret without pain. 

Even as the tenderness that hour instils 

When summer's day declines along the hills, 20 

So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes 

When all of genius which can perish dies. 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

9 

A mighty spirit is eclipsed, a power 

Hath passed from day to darkness, to whose hour 

Of light no likeness is bequeathed — no name, 

Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 

The flash of wit, the bright intelligence, 

The beam of song, the blaze of eloquence, 

Set with their sun, but still have left behind 

The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 

Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 

A deathless part of him who died too soon. 

But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 

These sparkling segments of that circling soul, 

Which all embraced, and lightened over all, 

To cheer, to pierce, to please, or to appall. 

From the charmed council to the festive board, 

Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 

In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, 

The praised, the proud, who made his praise their pride. 40 

When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan 

Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 

His was the thunder, his the avenging rod, 

The wrath — the delegated voice of God ! 

Which shook the nations through his lips, and blazed 45 

Till vanquished senates trembled as they praised. 

And here, oh ! here, where yet all young and warm, 

The gay creations of his spirit charm, 

The matchless dialogue, the deathless wit, 

Which knew not what it was to intermit ; 

The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring 

Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring ; 

These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought 

To fulness by the fiat of his thought, 

Here in their first abode you still may meet, 55 

Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat° : 



MONOD Y 105 

A halo of the light of other days, 

Which still the splendor of its orb betrays. 

But should there be to whom the fatal blight 

Of failing wisdom yields a base delight, 60 

Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 

Jar in the music which was born their own, 

Still let them pause — ah 1 little do they know 

That what to them seemed vice might be but woe. 

Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 65 

Is fixed for ever to detract or praise ; 

Repose denies her requiem to his name, 

And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 

The secret enemy whose sleepless eye 

Stands sentinel, accuser, judge, and spy, 70 

The foe, the fool, the jealous, and the vain, 

The envious who but breathe in others' pain, — 

Behold the host ! delighting to deprave, 

Who track the steps of Glory to the grave, 

Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 75 

Half to the ardor which its birth bestows, 

Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, 

And pile the pyramid of Calumny ! 

These are his portion — but if joined to these 

Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, 80 

If the high Spirit must forget to soar, 

And stoop to strive with Misery at the door,° 

To soothe Indignity, and face to face 

Meet sordid Rage, and wrestle with Disgrace, 

To find in Hope but the renewed caress, 85 

The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness : — 

If such may be the Ills which men assail 

What marvel if at last the mightiest fail 1 

Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 

Bear hearts electric, charged with fire from Heaven, 90 



106 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 

By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, 

Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 

Thoughts which have turned to thunder — scorched — and burst. 

But far from us and from our mimic scene i 

Such things should be — if such have ever been ; 

Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, 

To give the tribute Glory need not ask, 

To mourn the vanished beam, and add our mite 

Of praise and payment of a long delight. 1C 

Ye orators ! whom yet our councils yield, 

Mourn for the veteran hero of your field ! 

The worthy rival of the wondrous Three / 

Whose words were sparks of Immortality ! 

Ye bards ! to whom the drama's muse is dear, 1C 

He was your master — emulate him here ! 

Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 

He was your brother — bear his ashes hence ! 

While powers of mind almost of boundless range, 

Complete in kind, as various in their change, 11 

While Eloquence, Wit, Poesy, and Mirth, 

That humble harmonist of care on Earth, 

Survive within our souls — while lives our sense 

Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence, 

Long shall we seek his likeness, long in vain, 11 

And turn to all of him which may remain, 

Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man, 

And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan ! 

Diodati, July 17, 1816 



PROMETHEUS 107 



PROMETHEUS 



Titan ! to whose immortal eyes 

The sufferings of mortality, 

Seen in their sad reality, 
Were not as things that gocls despise ; 
What was thy pity's recompense 1 
A silent suffering, and intense ; 
The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
All that the proud can feel of pain, 
The agony they do not show, 
The suffocating sense of woe, 

Which speaks but in its loneliness, 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until his voice is echoless. 

Titan ! to thee the strife was given 
Between the suffering and the will, 
Which torture where they cannot kill ; 
And the inexorable Heaven, 
And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 
The ruling principle of Hate, 
Which for its pleasure doth create 
The things it may annihilate, 
Refused thee even the boon to die : 
The wretched gift eternity 
Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 
Was but the menace which flung back 
On him the torments of thy rack ; 
The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
But would not to appease him tell ; 



BYRON'S SHORTER. POEMS 

And in thy silence was his sentence, 

And in his soul a vain repentance, 

An evil dread so ill dissembled 

That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 

To render with thy precepts less 

The sum of human wretchedness, 
And strengthen Man with his own mind ; 
But baffled as thou wert from high, 
Still in thy patient energy, 
In the endurance, and repulse 

Of thine impenetrable spirit, 
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, 

A mighty lesson we inherit : 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 

To mortals of their fate and force ; 
Like thee, Man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pure source ; 
And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny ; 
His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
And his sad unallied existence : 
To which his spirit may oppose 
Itself — and equal to all woes, 

And a firm will, and a deep sense 
Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concentred recompense, 
Triumphant where it dares defy, 
And making death a victory. 

Diodati, July, 1816 









SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN 

Rousseau — Voltaire — - our Gibbon — and De Stae'F — 

Leman° ! these names are worthy of thy shore, 

Thy shore of names like these ! wert thou no more, 
Their memory thy remembrance would recall : 
To them thy banks were lovely as to all, 

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 

Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous • but by thee 
How much more, Lake of Beauty, do we feel, 1 

In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, 
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, 

Which of the heirs of immortality 
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 

Diodati, July, 1816 



CHURCHILL'S GRAVE 

A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED 

I stood beside the grave of him who blazed 

The comet of a season, and I saw 
The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 

With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 
With name no clearer than the names unknown, 
Which lay unread around it ; and I asked 

The gardener of that ground, why it might be 
That for this plant strangers his memory tasked, 

Through the thick deaths of half a century ; 



110 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

And thus he answered — " Well, I do not know 
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so • 
He died before my day of sextonship, 

And I had not the digging of this grave." 
And is this all ? I thought, — and do we rip 

The veil of immortality ? and crave 
I know not what of honor and of light 
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight ? 
So soon, and so successless? As I said, 
The Architect of all on which we tread, 
For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought, 

Were it not that all life must end in one, 
Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 
As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, 
Thus spoke he, — " I believe the man of whom 
You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 
Was a most famous writer in his day, 
And therefore travellers step from out their way 30 

To pay him honor, — and myself whate'er 

Your honor pleases : " — Then most pleased I shook 

From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere 
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare j 

So much but inconveniently : — Ye smile, 
I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while, 
Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 
With a deep thought, and with a softened eye, i 

On that old sexton's natural homily, 
In which there was obscurity and fame, — 
The glory and the nothing of a name. 

Diodati, 1816 



A FRAGMENT 111 



A FRAGMENT 



Could I remount the river of my years 

To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, 

I would not trace again the stream of hours 

Between their outworn banks of withered flowers, 

But bid it flow as now — until it glides 

Into the number of the nameless tides. 



What is this death? — a quiet of the heart ? 
The whole of that of which we are a part 1 
For life is but a vision — what I see 
Of all which lives alone is life to me, 
And being so — the absent are the dead, 
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
With sad remembrances our hours of rest. 

The absent are the dead — for they are cold, 
And ne'er can be what once we did behold : 
And they are changed and cheerless, — or if yet 
The unforgotten do not all forget, 
Since thus divided — equal must it be 
If the deep barrier be of earth or sea ; 
It may be both — but one day end it must 
In the dark union of insensate dust. 

The under-earth inhabitants — are they 
But mingled millions decomposed to clay 1 
The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread 1 
Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
Each in his incommunicative cell ? 
Or have they their own language 1 and a sense 
Of breathless being ? darkened and intense 



112 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

As midnight in her solitude? — Oh Earth ! 

Where are the past? — and wherefore had they birth ? 

The dead are thy inheritors — and we 

But bubbles on thy surface ; and the key 

Of thy profundity is in the grave, 35 

The ebon portal of thy peopled cave, 

Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 

Our elements resolved to things untold, 

And fathom hidden wonders, and explore 

The essence of great bosoms now no more. 40 



Diodati, July, 1816 



THE DREAM 



Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, 

A boundary between the things misnamed 

Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 

And a wide realm of wild reality, 

And dreams in their development have breath, 5 

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 

They take a weight from off our waking toils, 

They do divide our being; they become 

A portion of ourselves as of our time, 10 

And look like heralds of eternity ; 

They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 

Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 

They make us what we were not — what they will, 15 

And shake us with the vision that 's gone by, 



THE DREAM 113 

The dread of vanished shadows — Are they so ? 

Is not the past all shadow 1 What are they 1 

Creations of the mind 1 — The mind° can make 

Substance, and people planets of its own 20 

With beings brighter than have been, and give 

A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 

I would recall a vision which I dreamed 

Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 

A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 9,5 

And curdles a long life into one hour. 



ii 

I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
Green and of mild declivity, the last 
As 'twere. the cape of a long ridge of such, 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed, 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 
And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth, 



114 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

And that was shining on him : he had looked 

Upon it till it could not pass away ; 60 

He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; 

She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 

But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, ^ 

For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, 

Which colored all his objects : — he had ceased 

To live within himself; she was his life, 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 

Which terminated all : upon a tone, 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 

And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

But she in these fond feelings had no share : 

Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 

Even as a brother — but no more ; 'twas much, 

For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestowed on him ; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honored race. — It was a name 

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and why 1 ? 

Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 70 

Another ; even now she loved another, 

And on the summit of that hill she stood 

Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned : 
Within an antique oratory stood 
The boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 
And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 



THE DREAM 115 

He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 

Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned 

His bowed head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 

With a convulsion — then arose again, 

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 85 

What he had written, but he shed no tears. 

And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 

Into a kind of quiet : as he paused, 

The lady of his love re-entered there; 

She was serene and smiling then, and yet 90 

She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 

Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw 

That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 95 

He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 

A tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 

He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps 

Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 100 

For they did part with mutual smiles ; he passed 

From out the massy gate of that old hall, 

And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 

And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
And his soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
There was a mass of many images 



116 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all ; and in the last he lay- 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 115 
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruined walls that had survived the names 
Of those who reared them ; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fastened near a fountain ; and a man 120 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 125 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The lady of his love was wed with one 

Who did not love her better : — in her home, 

A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 

She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, 

Daughters and sons of beauty, — but behold ! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 

The settled shadow of an inward strife, 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 

What could her grief be° 1 — she had all she loved, 

And he who had so loved her was not there 

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 

Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 

What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not, 140 

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 

Nor could he be a part of that which preyed 

Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 



THE BREAM 117 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 1 

Before an altar — with a gentle bride ; 

Her face was fair, but was not that which made 

The starlight of his boyhood ; — as he stood 

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 

The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 1 

That in the antique oratory shook 

His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 

As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 

The tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, — and then it faded as it came, 1 

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 

And all things reeled around him ; he could see 

Not that which was, nor that which should have been - 

But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall, 1 

And the remembered chambers, and the place, 

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 

All things pertaining to that place and hour, 

And her who was his destiny, came back 

And thrust themselves between him and the light : I 

What business had they there at such a time 1 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The lady of his love ; — Oh ! she was changed 

As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 

Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes 170 

They had not their own lustre, but the look 

Which is not of the earth ; she was become 

The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 

Were combinations of disjointed things ; 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

And forms, impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of truth 1 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real ! 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The wanderer was alone as heretofore, 185 

The beings which surrounded him were gone, 

Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 

For blight and desolation, compassed round 

With hatred and contention ; pain was mixed 

In all which was served up to him, until, 190 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 

But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 

Through that which had been death to many men, 

And made him friends of mountains : with the stars 195 

And the quick Spirit of the Universe 

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries ; 

To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 200 

A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 



My dream was past ; it had no further change. 
It was of a strange order, that the doom 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA 119 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 
Almost like a reality — the one 205 

To end in madness — both in misery. 

July, 1816 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA 

Though the day of my destiny 's over, 

And the star of my fate hath declined, 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, 

It shrunk not to share it with me, 
And the love which my spirit hath painted 

It never hath found but in thee. 

Then when nature around me is smiling, 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling, 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean, 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their billows excite an emotion, 

It is that they bear me from thee. 

Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
Though I feel that my soul is delivered 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me : 

They may crush, but they shall not contemn ; 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me ; 

"lis of thee that I think — not of them. 



120 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Though human, thou did'st not deceive me, 

Though woman, thou did'st not forsake, 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 

Though slandered, thou never couldst shake ; 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 

Though parted, it was not to fly, 
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 

Nor, mute, that the world might belie. 



Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 

Nor the war of the many with oue ; 
If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 
And if dearly that error hath cost me, 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found that, whatever it lost me, 

It could not deprive me of thee. 



From the wreck of the past, which hath perished, 

Thus much I at least may recall, 
It hath taught me that what I most cherished 

Deserved to be dearest of all : 
In the desert a fountain is springing, 45 

In the wide waste there still is a tree, 
And a bird in the solitude singing, 

Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 

July 24, 1816 



EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA 121 



EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA - 



My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thiue. 

Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : 

Go where I will, to me thou art the same, 
A loved regret which I would not resign. 

There yet are two things in my destiny, 

A world to roam through, and a home with thee. 



The first were nothing — had I still the last, 
It were the haven of my happiness ; 

But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
And mine is not the wish to make them less. 

A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 

Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore° — 

He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 



If my inheritance of storms hath been 
In other elements, and on the rocks 

Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 

I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, 



122 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 

My errors with defensive paradox ; 
I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
The careful pilot of my proper woe. 



Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. 

My whole life was a contest, since the day 
That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd 

The gift — a fate or will that walk'd astray ; 
And I at times have found the struggle hard, 

And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay. 
But now I fain would for a time survive, 
If but to see what next can well arrive. 



Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 

And when I look on this, the petty spray 

Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd 

Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away. 

Something — I know not what — does still uphold 

A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain, 

Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 



Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me — or perhaps a cold despair, 

Brought on when ills habitually recur — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air — 






EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA 123 

For even to this may change of soul refer, 45 

And with light armor we may learn to bear — 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
The chief companion of a calmer lot. 



I feel almost at times as I have felt 

In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and brooks, 50 
Which do remember me of where I dwelt, 

Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 

My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
And even at moments I could think I see 55 

Some living thing to love — but none like thee. 



Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 

Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 

But something worthier do such scenes inspire. 

Here to be lonely is not desolate, 

For much I view which I could most desire. 

And, above all, a lake I can behold 

Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.° 



Oh that thou wert but with me ! — but I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 

The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 



124 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

There may be others which I less may show : — 

I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 



I did remind thee of our own dear lake. 

By the old hall which may be mine no more. 

Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore ; 

Sad havoc Time must with my memory make 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; 

Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 

Resign'd forever, or divided far. 



The world is all before me ; I but ask 

Of Nature that with which she will comply - 

It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 

To see her gentle face without a mask, 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 

She was my early friend, and now shall be 

My sister, till I look again on thee. 



I can reduce all feelings but this one ; 

And that I would not ; for at length I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun, 

The earliest — even the only paths for me - 



EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA 125 

Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 

I had been better than I now can be ; 
The passions which have torn me would have slept ; 95 
/ had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 



With false Ambition what had I to do 1 

Little with Love, and least of all with Fame ; 

And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, 
And made me all which they can make — a name. 

Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 

But all is over — I am one the more 

To baffled millions which have gone before. 



And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care ; 

I have outlived myself by many a day, 

Having survived so many things that were. 

My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 

Of life which might have fiU'd a century, 

Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 



And for the remnant which may be to come 

I am content ; and for the past I feel 
Not thankless, for within the crowded sum 115 

Of struggles, happiness at times would steal. 



126 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

And for the present, I would not benumb 

My feelings further. Nor shall I conceal 
That with all this I still can look around, 
And worship Nature with a thought profound. 



For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
I know myself secure, as thou in mine ; 

We were and are — I am, even as thou art — 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 

It is the same, together or apart, 

From life's commencement to its slow decline 

We are entwined ; let death come slow or fast, 

The tie which bound the first endures the last ! 



LINES 

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL 

And thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee ; 

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near ; 
Methought that joy and health alone could be 

Where I was not — and pain and sorrow here ! 
And is it thus 1 — it is as I foretold, 

And shall be more so ; for the mind recoils 
Upon itself, and the wrecked heart lies cold, 

While heaviness collects the shattered spoils. 
It is not in the storm nor in the strife 

We feel benumbed, and wish to be no more, 

But in the after-silence on the shore, 
When all is lost, except a little life. 



LINES 127 

I am too well avenged ! — but 'twas my right ; 

Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent 
To be the Nemesis who should requite — 15 

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. 
Mercy is for the merciful ! — if thou 
Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. 
Thy nights are banished from the realms of sleep ; — 

Yes ! they may natter thee, but thou shalt feel 20 

A hollow agony which will not heal, 
For thou art pillowed on a curse too deep ; 
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 

The bitter harvest in a woe as real I 
I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 25 

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend, 

And be avenged, or turn them into friend ; 
But thou in safe implacability 

Hadst nought to dread — in thy own weakness shielded, 
And in my love, which hath but too much yielded, 30 

And spared, for tby sake, some I should not spare — 
And thus upon the world — trust in thy truth, 
And the wild fame of my ungoverned youth — 

On things that were not, and on things that are — 
Even upon such a basis hast thou built 35 

A monument, whose cement hath been guilt I 

The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord, 
And hewed down, with an unsuspected sword, 
Fame, Peace, and Hope — and all the better life 

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, 40 

Might still have risen from out the grave of strife, 
And found a nobler duty than to part. 
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice, 

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold, 

For present anger, and for future gold — • 45 

And buying other's grief at any price, 
And thus once entered into crooked ways, 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

The early truth, which was thy proper praise, 

Did not still walk beside thee — but at times, 

And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, a 

Deceit, averments incompatible, 

Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell 

In Janus-spirits° — the significant eye 
Which learns to lie with silence — the pretext 
Of prudence, with advantages annexed — 
The acquiescence in all things which tend, 
No matter how, to the desired end — 

All found a place in thy philosophy. 
The means were worthy and the end is won — 
I would not do by thee as thou hast done ! 

September, 1816 



TO THOMAS MOORE 

What are you doing now, 

Oh Thomas Moore ? 
What are you doing now, 

Oh Thomas Moore ? 
Sighing or suing now, 
Rhyming or wooing now, 
Billing or cooing now, 
Which, Thomas Moore? 

But the Carnival 's coming, 

Oh Thomas Moore ! 
The Carnival 's. coming, 

Oh Thomas Moore ! 
Masking and humming, 
Fifing and drumming, 
Guitarring and strumming, 
Oh Thomas Moore ! 



TO THOMAS MOORE 129 



TO MR. MURRAY 



}} o . 



To hook the reader, you, John Murray, 
Have published " Anjou's Margaret," 
Which won't be sold off in a hurry — 

At least, it has not been as yet ; 
And then, still further to bewilder 'em, 
Without remorse, you set up " Ilderim 

So mind you don't get into debt, 
Because as how, if you should fail, 
These books would be but baddish bail. 



And mind you do not let escape 

These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, 
Which would be very treacherous — very, 

And get me into such a scrape ! 
For, firstly, I should have to sally, 
All in my little boat, against a Galley ; 

And should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight, 

Have next to combat with the female knight. 



TO THOMAS MOORE 

My boat is on the shore, 
And my bark is on the sea ; 

But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here 's a double health to thee ! 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Here 's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who' hate ; 

And, whatever sky 's above me, 
Here 's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me, 
Yet it still shall bear me on ; 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Were't the last drop in the well, 
As I gasped upon the brink, 

Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 

With that water, as this wine, 
The libation I would pour 

Should be — peace to thine and mine, 
And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 



July, 1817 



TO MR. MURRAY 

Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, 
Patron and publisher of rhymes, 
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
My Murray. 

To thee, with hope and terror dumb, 
The unfledged MS. authors come ; 
Thou printest all — and sellest some — 
My Murray. 



ODE ON VENICE 131 

Upon thy table's baize so green 
The last new Quarterly is seen, — 10 

But where is thy new Magazine, 
My Murray ? 

Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine 
The works thou deernest most divine — 
The " Art of Cookery," and mine, 15 

My Murray. 

Tours, travels, essays, too, I wist, 
And sermons to thy mill bring grist : 
And then thou hast the " Navy List," 

My Murray. 20 

And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
Without "the Board of Longitude," 
Although this narrow paper would, 
My Murray ! 

Venice, March 25, 1818 



ODE ON VENICE 



Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls 
Are level with the waters, there shall be 

A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 
A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 5 

What should thy sons do ? — anything but weep ; 

And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 

In contrast with their fathers — as the slime, 

The dull green ooze of the receding deep, 

Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam, 10 

That drives the sailor shipless to his home, 

Are they to those that were ; and thus they creep. 

Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets. 

Oh ! agony — that centuries should reap 

No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years 15 

Of wealth and glory turned to dust and tears ; 

And every monument the stranger meets, 

Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; 

And even the Lion° all subdued appears, 

And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, 

With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 

The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 

The soft waves, once all musical to song, 

That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng 

Of gondolas — and to the busy hum 

Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 

Were but the overbeating of the heart, 

And flow of too much happiness, which needs 

The aid of age to turn its course apart 

From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 

Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. 

But these are better than the gloomy errors, 

The weeds of nations in their last decay, 

When Vice walks forth with her unsoftened terrors, j 

And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; 

And Hope is nothing but a false delay, 

The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, 

When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, 

And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 



ODE ON VENICE 133 

Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, 40 

Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away ; 

Yet so relieving the o'ertortured clay, 

To him appears renewal of his breath, 

And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ; 

And then he talks of life, and how again 45 

He feels his spirit soaring — albeit weak, 

And of the fresher air, which he would seek ; 

And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, 

That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, 

And so the film comes o'er him, and the dizzy 50 

Chamber swims round and round, and shadows busy, 

At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, 

Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, 

And all is ice and blackness, — and the earth 

That which it was the moment ere our birth. 55 



There is no hope for nations ! — Search the page 
Of many thousand years — the daily scene, 

The flow and ebb of each recurring age, 
The everlasting to be which hath been, 
Hath taught us nought or little : still we lean 60 

On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear 

Our strength away in wrestling with the air ; 

For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the beasts 

Slaughtered in hourly hecatombs for feasts 

Are of as high an order — they must go 65 

Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter. 

Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, 

What have they given your children in return 1 

A heritage of servitude and woes, 

A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. 70 

What ! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, 

And deem this proof of loyalty the real; 

Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, 

And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? 75 

All that your sires have left you, all that Time 

Bequeathes of free, and History of sublime, 

Spring from a different theme ! Ye see and read, 

Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed ! 

Save the few spirits, who, despite of all, 80 

And worse than all, the sudden crimes engendered 

By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, 

And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tendered, 

Gushing from Freedom's fountains — when the crowd, 

Maddened with centuries of drought, are loud, 85 

And trample on each other to obtain 

The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 

Heavy and sore, in which long yoked they ploughed 

The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow grain, 

'Twas not for them, their necks were too much bowed, 90 

And their dead palates chewed the cud of pain : 

Yes ! the few spirits, who, despite of deeds 

Which they abhor, confound not with the cause 

Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, 

Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite 95 

But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth 

With all her seasons to repair the blight 

With a few summers, and again put forth 

Cities and generations — fair, when free — 

For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! 100 



Glory and Empire ! once upon these towers 
With Freedom — godlike Triad ! how ye sate ! 



ODE ON VENICE 135 

The league of mightiest nations, in those hours 

When Venice was an envy, might abate, 

But did not quench, her spirit ; in her fate 105 

All were enwrapped : the feasted monarchs knew 

And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, 
Although they humbled — with the kingly few 
The many felt, for from all days and climes 
She was the voyager's worship j even her crimes 110 

Were of the softer order — born of Love, 
She drank no blood, nor fattened on the dead, 
But gladdened where her harmless conquests spread ; 
For these restored the Cross, that from above 
Hallowed her sheltering banners, which incessant 115 

Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, 
W T hich, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank 
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank 
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe 
The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles ; 120 

Yet she but shares with them a common woe, 
And called the " kingdom " ° of a conquering foe, 
But knows what all — and, most of all, we know — 
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 



The name of Commonwealth is past and gone 

O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; 
Venice is crushed, and Holland deigns to own 

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe ; 
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time, 
For Tyranny of late is cunning grown, 
And in its own good season tramples down 
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, 
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 135 

Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and 

Bequeathed — a heritage of heart and hand, 

And proud distinction from each other land, 

Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, 

As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 140 

Full of the magic of exploded science — 

Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, 

Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, 

Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 

Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, 145 

The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag,° 

May strike to those whose red right hands have bought 

Rights cheaply earned with blood. Still, still, for ever 

Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, 

That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 150 

Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 

Dammed like the dull canal with locks and chains, 

And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, 

Three paces, and then faltering : better be 

Where the extinguished Spartans still are free, 155 

In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, 

Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 

Fly, and one current to the ocean add, 

One spirit to the souls our fathers had, 

One freeman more, America, to thee ! 1 



MAZEPPA 



i 



'Twas after dread Pultowa's day, 
When fortune left the royal Swede, 

Around a slaughtered army lay, 
No more to combat and to bleed. 



MAZEPPA 137 



The power and glory of the war, 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
Had passed to the triumphant Czar,° 

And Moscow's walls were safe again, 
Until a day more dark and drear, 
And_a more memorable year, 
Should give to slaughter and to shame 
A mightier host and haughtier name ; 
A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 



Such was the hazard of the die ; 

The wounded Charles was taught to fly 

By day and night through field and flood, 

Stained with his own and subjects' blood ; 

For thousands fell that flight to aid : 

And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 

Ambition in his humbled hour, 

When Truth had nought to dread from Power. 

His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 

His own — and died the Russians' slave. 

This too sinks after many a league 

Of well sustained, but vain fatigue ; 

And in the depth of forests darkling, 

The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 

The beacons of surrounding foes — 
A king must lay his limbs at length. 

Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength ? 
They laid Jrim by a savage tree, 
In outworn nature's agony ; 
His wounds were stiff, his limbs were stark ; 
The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

The fever in his blood forbade 
A transient slumber's fitful aid : 
And thus it was • but yet through all, 
Kinglike the monarch bore his' fall, 
And made, in this extreme of ill, 
His pangs the vassals of his will : 
All silent and subdued were they, 
As once the nations round him lay. 



A band of chiefs ! — alas ! how fefr, 

Since but the fleeting of a day 
Had thinned it ; but this wreck was true 

And chivalrous : upon the clay 
Each sate him down, all sad and mute, 

Beside his monarch and his steed, 
For danger levels man and brute, 

And all are fellows in their need. 
Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 
The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold ; 
But first, outspent with this long course, 
The Cossack prince rubbed down his horse, 
And made for him a leafy bed, 

And smoothed his fetlocks and his mane, _ 

And slacked his girth, and stripped his rein, 
And joyed to see how well he fed ; 
For until now he had the dread 
His wearied courser might refuse 
To browse beneath the midnight dews : 
But he was hardy as his lord, 
And little cared for bed and board ; 



MAZEPPA 139 

But spirited and docile too, 

Whate'er was to be done, would do. 

Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 70 

All Tartar-like he carried him ; 

Obeyed his voice, and came to call, 

And knew him in the midst of all : 

Though thousands were around, — and Night, 

Without a star, pursued her flight, — 75 

That steed from sunset until dawn 

His chief would follow like a fawn. 



This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 

And laid his lance beneath his oak, 

Felt if his arms in order good 80 

The long day's march had well withstood - — 

If still the powder filled the pan, 

And flints unloosened kept their lock — 
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
And whether they had chafed his belt ; 85 

And next the venerable man, 
From out his haversack and can, 

Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
And to the monarch and his men 
The whole or portion offered then 90 

With far less of inquietude 
Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
And Charles of this his slender share 
With smiles partook a moment there, 
To force of cheer a greater show, 95 

And seem above both wounds and woe ; 
And then he said — "Of all our band, 
Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 



140 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

In skirmish, march, or forage, none 

Can less have said or more have done 

Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 

So fit a pair had never birth, 

Since Alexander's days till now, 

As thy Bucephalus and thou : 

All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 

For pricking on o'er flood and field." 

Mazeppa answered — "111 betide 

The school wherein I learned to ride ! " 

Quoth Charles — " Old Hetman, wherefore so, 

Since thou hast learned the art so well 1 " 

Mazeppa said — " 'Twere long to tell ; 

And we have many a league to go, 

With every now and then a blow, 

And ten to one at least the foe, 

Before our steeds may graze at ease, 

Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 

And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, 

And I will be the sentinel 
Of this your troop." — " But I request," 

Said Sweden's monarch, "thou wilt tell 
This tale of thine, and I may reap, 
Perchance, from this the boon of sleep ; 
For at this moment from my eyes 
The hope of present slumber flies." 

" Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track 
My seventy years of memory back : 
I think 'twas in my twentieth spring, — 
Ay, 'twas, — when Casimir was king — 
John Casimir , — I was his page 
Six summers, in my earlier age : 
A learned monarch, faith ! was he, 
And most unlike your majesty ; 



MAZEPPA 141 

He .made no wars, and did not gain 

New realms to lose them back again ; 

And, save debates in Warsaw's diet, 135 

He reigned in most unseemly quiet ; 

Not that he had no cares to vex, 

He loved the muses and the sex ; 

And sometimes these so froward are, 

They made him wish himself at war ; 140 

But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 

Another mistress, or new book : 

And then he gave prodigious fetes — 

All Warsaw gathered round his gates 

To gaze upon his splendid court, 145 

And dames and chiefs, of princely port. 

He was the Polish Solomon, 

So sung his poets, all but one, 

Who, being unpensioned, made a satire, 

And boasted that he could not flatter. 150 

It was a court of jousts and mimes, 

Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 

Even I for once produced some verses, 

And signed my odes ' Despairing Thyrsis.' 

There was a certain Palatine, 155 

A count of far and high descent, 
Rich as a salt or silver mine ; 
And he was proud, ye may divine^ 

As if from heaven he had been sent : 
He had such wealth in blood and ore 160 

As few could match beneath the throne ; 
And he would gaze upon his store, 
And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
Until by some confusion led, 
Which almost looked like want of head, 165 

He thought their merits were his own. ' 
His wife was not of his opinion ; 



142 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

His junior she by thirty years, 
Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 
And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 
To virtue a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances 
Awaited but the usual chances, 
Those happy accidents which render 
The coldest dames so very tender, 
To deck her count with titles given, 
'Tis said, as passports into heaven ; 
But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
Of these, who have deserved them most. 






" I was a goodly stripling then ; 

At seventy years I so may say, 
That there were few, or boys or men, 

Who, in my dawning time of day, 
Of vassal or of knight's degree, 
Could vie in vanities with me ; 
For I had strength, youth, gaiety, 
A port, not like to this ye see, 
But smooth, as all is rugged now ; 

For time, and care, and war, have ploughed 190 
My very soul from out my brow ; 

And thus I should be disavowed 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Compare my day and yesterday ; 
This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
Had ta'en my features for his page : 
With years, ye know, have not declined 
My strength, my courage, or my mind, 



MAZEPPA 143 

Or at this hour I should not be 

Telling old tales beneath a tree, 200 

With starless skies my -canopy. 

But let me on : Theresa's form — 
Methinks it glides before me now, 
Between me and yon chestnut's bough s 

The memory is so quick and warm ; 205 

And yet I find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well : 
She had the Asiatic eye, 

Such as our Turkish neighborhood 

Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 210 

Dark as above us is the sky ; 
But through it stole a tender light, 
Like the first moonrise of midnight ; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
Which seemed to melt to its own beam ; 215 

All love, half languor, and half fire, 
Like saints that at the stake expire, 
And lift their raptured looks on high, 
As though it were a joy to die. > 

A brow like a midsummer lake, 220 

Transparent wdth the sun therein, 
When waves no murmur dare to make, 

And Heaven beholds her face within. 
A cheek and lip — but why proceed 2 

I loved her then, I love her still ; 225 

And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and ilL 
But still we love even in our rage, 
And haunted to our very age 

With the vain shadow of the past, 230 

As is Mazeppa to the last. 



144 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



" We met — we gazed — I saw, and sighed, 

She did not speak, and yet replied ; 

There are ten thousand tones and signs 

We hear and see, but none defines — 

Involuntary sparks of thought, 

Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought, 

And form a strange intelligence, 

Alike mysterious and intense, 

Which link the burning chain that binds, 240 

Without their will, young hearts and minds ; 

Conveying, as the electric wire, 

We know not how, the absorbing fire. 

I saw, and sighed — in silence wept, 

And still reluctant distance kept, 245 

Until I was made known to her, 

And we might then and there confer 

Without suspicion — then, even then, 

I longed, and was resolved to speak ; 
But on my lips they died again, 250 

The accents tremulous and weak, 
Until one hour. — There is a game, 
A frivolous and foolish play, 
Wherewith we while away the day ; 
It is — I have forgot the name — " 255 

And we to this, it seems, were set, 
By some strange chance, which I forget : 
I recked not if I won or lost, 
It was enough for me to be 
So near to hear, and oh ! to see 260 

The being whom I loved the most. 
I watched her as a sentinel, — 
May ours this dark night watch as well ! 
Until I saw, and thus it was, 



MAZEPPA 145 

That she was pensive, nor perceived 265 

Her occupation, nor was grieved 

Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 

Played on for hours, as if her will 

Yet bound her to the place, though not 

That hers might be the winning lot. 270 

Then through my brain the thought did pass 
Even as a flash of lightning there, 
That there was something in her air 
Which would not doom me to despair ; 
And on the thought my words broke forth 275 

All incoherent as they were — 
Their eloquence was little worth, 
But yet she listened — 'tis enough — 

Who listens once will listen twice ; 

Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 280 

And one refusal no rebuff. 



" I loved, and was beloved again — 
They tell me, sire, you never knew 
Those gentle frailties ; if 'tis true, 

I shorten all my joy or pain ; 

To you 'twould seem absurd as vain ; 

But all men are not born to reign, 

Or o'er their passions, or as you 

Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 

I am — or rather was — a prince, 
A chief of thousands, and could lead 
Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 

But could not o'er myself evince 

The like control — But to resume : 
I loved, and was beloved again ; 

In sooth, it is a happy doom, 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

But yet where happiest ends in pain. 
We met in secret, and the hour 
Which led me to that lady's bower 
Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
My days and nights were nothing — all 
Except that hour which doth recall, 
In the long lapse from youth to age, 

No other like itself : I'd give 

The Ukraine back again to live 
It o'er once more, and be a page, 
The happy page, who was the lord 
Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 
And had no other gem nor wealth 
Save Nature's gift of youth and health. 
We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
I know not that — I would have given 

My life but to have called her mine 
In the full view of earth and heaven ; 

For I did oft and long repine 
That we could only meet by stealth. 

VIII 

" For lovers there are many eyes, 

And such there were on us ; the devil 
On such occasions should be civil — 

The devil ! — I'm loth to do him wrong, 
It might be some untoward saint, 

Who would not be at rest too long, 
But to his pious bile gave vent — 

But one Mr night, some lurking spies 

Surprised and seized us both. 

The Count was something more than wroth — 

I was unarmed ; but if in steel, 



MAZEPPA 147 

All cap-k-pie from head to heel, 

What 'gainst their numbers could I do ? — 330 
'Twas near his castle, far away 

From city or from succor near, 
And almost on the break of day ; 
I did not think to see another, 

My moments seemed reduced to few \ 335 

And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 

And, it may be, a saint or two, 
As I resigned me to my fate, 
They led me to the castle gate : 

Theresa's doom I never knew, 340 

Our lot was henceforth separate. 
An angry man, ye may opine, 
Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 
And he had reason good to be, 

But he was most enraged lest such 345 

An accident should chance to touch 
Upon his future pedigree ; 
Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
His noble 'scutcheon should have got, 
While he was highest of his line ; 350 

Because unto himself he seemed 

The first of men, nor less he deemed 
In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
'Sdeath ! with a page ■ — perchance a king 
Had reconciled him to the thing; 355 

But with a stripling of a page — 
I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 



' Bring forth the horse ! ' — the horse was brought. 
In truth, he was a noble steed, 
A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 360 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Who looked as though the speed of thought 
Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, 

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
With spur and bridle undefiled — 

'Twas but a day he had been caught ; 3(35 

And snorting, with erected mane, 
And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
In the full foam of wrath and dread 
To me the desert-born was led : 
They bound me on, that menial throng, 370 

Upon his back with many a thong ; 
Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
Away ! away ! and on we dash ! — 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 



" Away ! away ! My breath was gone — 

I saw not where he hurried on : 

'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, 

And on he foamed — away ! away ! 

The last of human sounds which rose, 

As I was darted from my foes, 380 

Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 

Which on the wind came roaring after 

A moment from that rabble rout : 

With sudden wrath I wrenched my head, 

And snapped the cord, which to the mane 385 

Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
And, writhing half my form about, 
Howled back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, 
The thunder of my courser's speed, 
Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 
It vexes me — for I would fain 
Have paid their insult back again. 



MAZEPPA 149 

I paid it well in after days : 

There is not of that castle gate, 

Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, 395 

Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 
Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 

Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 
And many a time ye there might pass, 400 

Nor dream that e'er that fortress was : 
I saw its turrets in a blaze, 
Their crackling battlements all cleft 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
From off the scorched and blackening roof, 405 

Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 

They little thought that day of pain, 
When launched, as on the lightning's flash, 
They bade me to destruction dash, 

That one day I should come again, 410 

With twice five thousand horse, to thank 

The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
They played me then a bitter prank, 

When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
They bound me to his foaming flank : 415 

At length I played them one as frank — 
For time at last sets all things even - — 

And if we do but watch the hour, 

There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven, 420 

The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 



" Away ! away ! my steed and I, 
Upon the pinions of the wind, 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

All human dwellings left behind, 
We sped like meteors through the sky, 
When with its crackling sound the night 
Is chequered with the northern light. 
Town — village — none were on our track, 

But a wild plain of far extent, 
And bounded by a forest black ; 

And, save the scarce seen battlement 
On distant heights of some stronghold, 
Against the Tartars built of old, 
No trace of man. The year before, 
A Turkish army had marched o'er ; 
And where the Spahi's hoof ° hath trod, 
The verdure flies the bloody sod : 
The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 

And a low breeze crept moaning by — 

I could have answered with a sigh — 
But fast we fled, away ! away ! 
And I could neither sigh nor pray • 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 
But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
He flew upon his far career : 
At times I almost thought, indeed, 
He must have slackened in his speed ; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 

Was nothing to his angry might, 
And merely like a spur became : 
Each motion which I made to free 
My swoln limbs from their agony 

Increased his fury and affright : 
I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low, 
But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 



MAZEPPA 151 

Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 460 

Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er ; 
And in my tongue the thirst became 
A something fierier far than flame. 



" We neared the wild wood — 'twas so wide, 

I saw no bounds on either side ; 465 

'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, 

That bent not to the roughest breeze 

Which howls down from Siberia's waste, 

And strips the forest in its haste, — 

But these were few and far between, 470 

Set thick with shrubs more young and green, 

Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 

Ere strown by those autumnal eves 

That nip the forest's foliage dead, 

Discolored with a lifeless red, 475 

Which stands thereon like stiffened gore 

Upon the slain when battle 's o'er, 

And some long winter's night hath shed 

Its frost o'er every tombless head, 

So cold and stark the raven's beak 480 

May peck unpierced each frozen cheek : 

'Twas a wild waste of underwood, 

And here and there a chestnut stood, 

The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 

But far apart — and well it were, 485 

Or else a different lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 

My wounds, already scarred with cold — 

My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 490 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
By night I heard them on the track, 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 
With their long gallop, which can tire 
The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire : 
Where'er we flew they followed on, 
Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 
At clay-break winding through the wood, 
And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
Oh ! how I wished for spear or sword, 
At least to die amidst the horde, 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe ! 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wished the goal already won ; 
But now I doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerved him like the mountain-roe ; 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
Which whelms the peasant near the door 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bewildered with the dazzling blast, 
Than through the forest-paths he past — 
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
All furious as a favored child 
Balked of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
A woman piqued — who has her will. 



" The wood was past ; 'twas more than noon, 
But chill the air, although in June j 



MAZEPPA 153 

Or it might be my veins ran cold — 

Prolonged endurance tames the bold ; 

And I was then not what I seem, 525 

But headlong as a wintry stream, 

And wore my feelings out before 

I well could count their causes o'er : 

And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 

The tortures which beset my path, 530 

Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 

Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 

Sprung from a race whose rising blood 

When stirred beyond its calmer mood, 

And trodden hard upon, is like 535 

The rattle-snake's, in act to strike, 

What marvel if this worn-out trunk 

Beneath its woes a moment sunk 1 

The earth gave way, the skies rolled round, 

I seemed to sink upon the ground; 540 

But erred, for I was fastly bound. 

My heart turned sick, my brain grew sore, 

And throbbed awhile, then beat no more : 

The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 

I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 545 

And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, 

Which saw no farther. He who dies 

Can die no more than then I died, 

O'ertortured by that ghastly ride. 

I felt the blackness come and go, 550 

And strove to wake ; but could not make 
My senses climb up from below : 
I felt as on a plank at sea, 
When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
At the same time upheave and whelm, 555 

And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
My undulating life was as 



154 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

The fancied lights that flitting pass 
Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
Fever begins upon the brain ; 
But soon it passed, with little pain, 
But a confusion worse than such : 
I own that I should deem it much, 
Dying, to feel the same again ; 
And yet I do suppose we must 
Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 
No matter ; I have bared my brow 
Full in Death's face — before — and now. 



" My thoughts came back ; where was I ? Cold, 
And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 

Life reassumed its lingering hold, 

And throb by throb, — till grown a pang 
Which for a moment would convulse, 
My blood reflowed, though thick and chill ; 

My ear with uncouth noises rang, 
My heart began once more to thrill ; 

My sight returned, though dim ; alas ! 

And thickened, as it were, with glass. 

Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 

There was a gleam too of the sky, 

Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 

The wild horse swims the wilder stream"! 

The bright broad river's gushing tide 

Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 

And we are half-way, struggling o'er 

To yon unknown and silent shore. 
The waters broke my hollow trance, 
And with a temporary strength 
My stiffened limbs were rebaptized. 



MAZEPPA 155 

My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 590 

And dashes off the ascending waves, 

And onward we advance ! 

We reach the slippery shore at length, 

A haven I but little prized, 
For all behind was dark and drear 595 

And all before was night and fear. 
How many hours of night or day 
In those suspended pangs I lay, 
I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 
If this were human breath I drew. 600 



" With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 

And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 

Up the repelling bank. 
We gain the top : a boundless plain 605 

Spreads through the shadow of the night, 

And onward, onward, onward, seems, 

Like precipices in our dreams, 
To stretch beyond the sight ; 
And here and there a speck of white, 610 

Or scattered spot of dusky green, 
In masses broke into the light, 
As rose the moon upon my right : 

But nought distinctly seen 
In the dim waste would indicate ' 615 

The omen of a cottage gate ; 
No twinkling taper from afar 
Stood like a hospitable star ; 
Not even an ignis-fatuus° rose 
To make him merry with my woes : 620 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

That very cheat had cheered me then ! 
Although detected, welcome still, 
Reminding me through every ill, 

Of the abodes of men. 



" Onward we went — but slack and slow ; , 625 

His savage force at length o'erspent, 
The drooping courser, faint and low, 

All feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour ; 

But, useless all to me, 
His new-born tameness nought availed — 
My limbs were bound ; my force had failed, 

Perchance, had they been free. 
With feeble effort still I tried 
To rend the bonds so starkly tied, 

But still it was in vain ; 
My limbs were only wrung the more, 
And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 

Which but prolonged their pain. 
The dizzy race seemed almost done, 
Although no goal was nearly won : 
Some streaks announced the coming sun — 

How slow, alas ! he came ! 
Methought that mist of dawning gray 
Would never dapple into day ; 
How heavily it rolled away ! 

Before the eastern flame 
Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 
And called the radiance from their cars, 
And filled the earth, from his deep throne, 
With lonely lustre, all his own. 



MAZEPPA 157 



" Up rose the sun ; the mists were curled 

Back from the solitary world 

Which lay around, behind, before. 655 

What booted it to traverse o'er 

Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute, 

Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 

Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 

No sign of travel, none of toil ; 660 

The very air was mute ; 

And not an insect's shrill small horn, 

Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 

From herb nor thicket. Many a werst,° 

Panting as if his heart would burst, 665 

The weary brute still staggered on ; 

And still we were — or seemed — alone. 

At length, while reeling on our way, 

Meth ought I heard a courser neigh, 

From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 670 

Is it the wind those branches stirs 1 

No, no ! from out the forest prance 

A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
In one vast squadron they advance ! 

I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 675 

The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
But where are they the reins to guide 1 
A thousand horse, and none to ride ! 
With flowing tail, and flying mane, 
Wide nostrils never stretched by pain, 680 

Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 
And feet that iron never shod, 
And flanks unscarred by spur or rod, 
A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 685 



BY RON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Came thickly thundering on, 
As if our faint approach to meet. 
The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
A moment, with a faint low neigh, 

He answered, and then fell. 
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 

And reeking limbs immovable, 
His first and last career is done. 
On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 

They saw me strangely bound along 

His back with many a bloody thong : 
They stop, they start, they snuff the air, 
Gallop a moment here and there, 
Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
Then plunging back with sudden bound, 
Headed by one black mighty steed, 
Who seemed the patriarch of his breed, 

Without a single speck or hair 
Of white upon his shaggy hide ; 
They snort, they foam, neigh, swerve aside, 
And backward to the forest fly, 
By instinct, from a human eye. 

They left me there to my despair, 
Linked to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, 
Relieved from that unwonted weight, 
From whence I could not extricate 
Nor him nor me — and there we lay, 

The dying on the dead ! 
I little deemed another day 

Would see my houseless, helpless head. 

" And there from morn till twilight bound, 
I felt the heavy hours toil round, 



MAZEPPA 159 

With just enough of life to see 720 

My last of suns go down on me, 

In hopeless certainty of mind, 

That makes us feel at length resigned 

To that which our foreboding years 

Presents the worst and last of fears : 725 

Inevitable — even a boon, 

Nor more unkind for coming soon, 

Yet shunned and dreaded with such care, 

As if it only were a snare 

That prudence might escape : 730 

At times both wished for and implored, 
At times sought with self-pointed sword. 
Yet still a dark and hideous close 
To even intolerable woes, 

And welcomed in no shape. 735 

And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, 
They who have revelled beyond measure 
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, 
Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 
Whose heritage was misery. 740 

Eor he who hath in turn run through 
All that was beautiful and new, 

Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave ; 
And, save the future, — which is viewed 
Not quite as men are base or good, 745 

But as their nerves may be endued, — 

With nought perhaps to grieve : 
The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 
And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
Appears, to his distempered eyes, 750 

Arrived to rob him of his prize, 
The tree of his new Paradise. 
To-morrow would have given him all, 
Repaid his pangs, repaired his fall ; 



BYRON 7 S SHORTER POEMS 

To-morrow would have been the first 
Of clays no more deplored or curst, 
But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 
Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, 
Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 
To-morrow would have given him power 
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
And must it dawn upon his grave ? 



"The sun was sinking — still I lay 

Chained to the chill and stiffening steed, 
I thought to mingle there our clay ; 

And my dim eyes of death had need, 

No hope arose of being freed. 
I cast my last looks up the sky, 

And there between me and the sun 
I saw the expecting raven fly, 
Who scarce would wait till both should die, 

Ere his repast begun ; 
He flew, and perched, then flew once more, 
And each time nearer than before ; 
I saw his wing through twilight flit, 
And once so near me he alit 

I could have smote, but lacked the strength ; 
But the slight motion of my hand, 
And feeble scratching of the sand, 
The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
Which scarcely could be called a voice, 

Together scared him off at length. 
I know no more — my latest dream 

Is something of a lovely star 

Which fixed my dull eyes from afar, 
And went and came with wandering beam, 



MAZEPPA 161 

And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 

Sensation of recurring sense, 

And then subsiding back to death, 

And then again a little breath, 790 

A little thrill, a short suspense, 

An icy sickness curdling o'er 
My heart, and sparks that crossed my brain — 
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 

A sigh, and nothing more. 795 

XIX 

" I woke — Where was 11 — Do I see 

A human face look down on me ? 

And doth a roof above me close 1 

Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 

Is this a chamber where I lie 1 800 

And is it mortal yon bright eye, 

That watches me with gentle glance ? 

I closed my own again once more, 
As doubtful that the former trance 

Could not as yet be o'er. 805 

A slender girl, long-haired, and tall, 
Sate watching by the cottage wall. 
The sparkle of her eye I caught, 
Even with my first return of thought ; 
For ever and anon she threw 810 

A prying, pitying glance on me, 

With her black eyes so wild and free. 
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 

No vision it could be, — 
But that I lived, and was released 815 

From adding to the vulture's feast. 
And when the Cossack maid beheld 
My heavy eyes at length unsealed, 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

She smiled — and I essayed to speak, 

But failed — and she approached, and made 
With lip and finger signs that said, 

I must not strive as yet to break 

The silence, till my strength should be 

Enough to leave my accents free ; 

And then her hand on mine she laid, 

And smoothed the pillow for my head, 

And stole along on tiptoe tread, 

And gently oped the door, and spake 

In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet! 

Even music followed her light feet. 
But those she called were not awake, 

And she went forth ; but, ere she passed, 

Another look on me she cast, 
Another sign she made, to say, 

That I had nought to fear, that all 

Were near, at my command or call, 
And she would not delay 

Her due return : — while she was gone, 

Methought I felt too much alone. 



" She came with mother and with sire — 
What need of more 1 — I will not tire 
With long recital of the rest, 
Since I became the Cossack's guest. 
They found me senseless on the plain, 

They bore me to the nearest hut, 
They brought me into life again, 
Me — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 

Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
His rage, refining on my pain, 

Sent me forth to the wilderness, 



STANZAS TO THE PO 163 

Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
To pass the desert to a throne, — 

What mortal his own doom may guess 1 

Let none despond, let none despair ! 
To-morrow the Borysthenes 855 

May see our coursers graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 

As I shall yield when safely there. 
Comrades, good night ! " — the hetman threw 860 

His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 

With leafy couch already made, 
A bed nor comfortless nor new 
To him, who took his rest whene'er 
The hour arrived, no matter where : 865 

His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale, he wondered not, — 

The king had been an hour asleep. 



STANZAS TO THE PO° 

River, that rollest by the ancient walls, 

Where dwells the lady of my love,° when she 

Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls 
A faint and fleeting memoiy of me ; 

W T hat if thy deep and ample stream should be 
A mirror of my heart, where she may read 

The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, 
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ! 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

What do I say — a mirror of my heart 1 

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? 

Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; 
And such as thou art were my passions long. 

Time may have somewhat tamed them, — not for ever ; 

Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye 
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! 

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away ; 

But left long wrecks behind, and now again, 
Borne in our old unchanged career, we move ; 

Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main, 
And I — to loving one I should not love. 

The current I behold will sweep beneath 
Her native walls, and murmur at her feet ; 

Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 
The twilight air, unharmed by summer's heat. 

She will look on thee, — I have looked on thee, 

Full of that thought ; and from that moment, ne'er 

Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, 
Without the inseparable sigh for her ! 

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, — 
Yes ! they will meet the wave I gaze on now : 

Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, 
That happy wave repass me in its flow ! 

The wave that bears my tears returns no more : 

Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep 1 — j 

Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, 
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 



THE ISLES OF GREECE 165 

But that which keepeth us apart is not 

Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, 

But the distraction of a various lot, 

As various as the climates of our birth. 40 

A stranger loves the lady of the land, 

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood 

Is all meridian, as if never fanned 

By the black wind that chills the polar flood. 

My blood is all meridian ; were it not, _ 45 

I had not left my clime, nor should 1 be, 
In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot, 

A slave again of love, — at least of thee. 

'Tis vain to struggle — let me perish young — 

Live as I lived, and love as I have loved ; 50 

To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, 

And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. 

April, 1819 



THE ISLES OF GREECE 

FEOM DON JUAN, CANTO III 



The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 



166 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



The Scian° and the Teian° muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 



The mountains look on Marathon — 
And Marathon looks on the sea ; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; 

For standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 



A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations ; — all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set where were they ? 



And where are they ? and where art thou, 
My country 1 On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine ? 



l 



THE ISLES OF GREECE 167 



? Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here 1 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 



Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 

Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new ThermopylaB ! 



What, silent still 1 and silent all 1 
Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 

Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 
And answer, " Let one living head, 

But one arise, — we come, we come ! " 

'Tis but the living who are dumb. 



In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine° ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 



168 • BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet ; 

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
Of two such lessons, why forget 

The nobler and the manlier one 1 
You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
Think ye he meant them for a slave 1 



Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song° divine : 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 



The tyrant of the Chersonese 

W T as Freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
TJiat tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 



Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock,° and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 



AVE MARIA 169 



Trust not for freedom to the Franks } 
They have a king who buys and sells ; 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

xv 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade ; 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 



Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die l 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 



AVE MARIA 

FROM DON JUAN, CANTO III 

Ave Maria ° ! blessed be the hour ! 

Thetime, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, 



170 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer. 

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer ! 

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! 
Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! 

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove — 
What though 'tis but a pictured image 1 — strike — 
That painting is no idol, — 'tis too like. 

Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 

Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, 

Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er, 
" To where the last Caesarean fortress stood, 
Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 

And Dryden's lay° made haunted ground to me, 

How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! 

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, 

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, 

Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, 
And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along ; 

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, 

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng 

Which learned from this example not to fly 

From a true lover, — shadowed my mind's eye. 

Oh, Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — 
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 

To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
The welcome stall to the o'erlabored steer : 



STANZAS 171 

Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 
Are gathered round us by thy look of rest ; 
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 40 

Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 

When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way 

As the far bell of vesper makes him start, - 45 

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 

Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 

Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns 1 



STANZAS 

"could love forever" 

Could Love forever 
Run like a river, 
And Time's endeavor 

Be tried in vain — 
No other pleasure 
With this could measure ; 
And like a treasure 

We'd hug the chain. 
But since our sighing 
Ends not in dying, 
And, formed for flying, 

Love plumes his wing ; 
Then for this reason 
Let 's love a season ; 
But let that season be only spring. 



172 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

When lovers parted 
Feel broken-hearted, 
And, all hopes thwarted 

Expect to die ; 
A few years older, 
Ah ! how much colder 
They might behold her 

For whom they sigh ! 
When linked together, 
In every weather, 
They pluck Love's feather 

From out his wing — 
He'll stay forever, 
But sadly shiver 
Without his plumage, when past the spring. 

Like chiefs of faction, 
His life is action — 
A formal paction 

That curbs his reign, 
Obscures his glory, 
Despot no more, he 
Such territory 

Quits with disdain. 
Still, still advancing, 
With banners glancing, 
His power enhancing, 

He must move on — 
Repose but cloys him, 
Retreat destroys him, 
Love brooks not a degraded throne. 

Wait not, fond lover ! 
Till years are over, 



STANZAS 173 

And then recover 

As from a dream. 
While each bewailing 50 

The other's failing, 
With wrath and railing, 

All hideous seem — 
While first decreasing, 
Yet not quite ceasing, 55 

Wait not till teasing 

All passion blight : 
If once diminished 
Love's reign is finished — 
Then part in friendship, — and bid good night. 60 

So shall Affection 
To recollection 
The dear connection 

Bring back with joy : 
You had not waited 65 

Till, tired or hated, 
Your passions sated 

Began to cloy. 
Your last embraces 

Leave no cold traces — 70 

The same fond 'faces 

As through the past ; 
And eyes, the mirrors 
Of your sweet errors, 
Eeflect but rapture — not least though last. 75 

True, separations 
Ask more than patience ; 
What desperations 
Erom such have risen ! 



174 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

But yet remaining, 
What is't but chaining 
Hearts which, once waning, 

Beat 'gainst their prison ? 
Time can but cloy love, 
And use destroy love : 
The winged boy, Love, 

Is but for boys — 
You'll find it torture 
Though sharper, shorter, 
To wean, and not wear out your joys. 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI 

FEOM DANTE'S INFERNO, CANTO V 

" The land where I was born sits by the seas, 
Upon that shore to which the Po descends, 
With all his followers, in search of peace. 

Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 
Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en 
From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 

Love, who to none beloved to love again 

Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, 
That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 

Love to one death conducted us along, 

But Caina waits for him our life who ended." 
These were the accents utter'd by her tongue. — 

Since 1° first listen'd to these souls offended, 
I bow'd my visage, and so kept it till — 
"What think'st thou ? " said the bard,° when I un- 
bended, 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI 175 

And recommenced : " Alas ! unto such ill 

How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies, 
Led these their evil fortune to fulfil ! " 
And then I turned unto their side my eyes, 

And said, " Francesca, thy sad destinies 20 

Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 
But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, 
By what and how thy love to passion rose, 
So as his dim desires to recognize?" 
Then she to me: " The greatest of all woes° 25 

Is to remind us of our happy days 
In misery, and that thy teacher knows. 
But if to learn our passion's first root preys 
Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
I will do even as he who weeps andsays. 30 

We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, 
Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. 
We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 

All o'er discolor'd by that reading were ; 35 

But one point only wholly us o'erthrew ; ^ 
When we read the long-sigh'd-for smile of her, 
To be thus kiss'd by such devoted lover, 
He° who from me can be divided ne'er 
Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over : 40 

Accursed was the book and he who wrote j 
That day no further leaf we did uncover." — 
While thus one spirit told us of their lot, ^ 
The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 
I swoon'd, as if by death I had been smote, 45 

And fell down even as a dead body falls. 



176 BYBON'S SHORTER POEMS 



STANZAS 






When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, 
Let him combat for that of his neighbors ; 

Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, 
And get knocked on the head for his labors. 

To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan, 

And is always as nobly requited • 
Then battle for freedom wherever you can, 

And, if not shot or hanged, you'll get knighted. 

November, 1820 



ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY 

JANUARY 22, 1821 

Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty, 
I have dragged to three-and-thirty. 
What have these years left to me ? 
Nothing — except thirty-three. 

EPIGRAM 

ON THE BRAZIERS' COMPANY HAVING RESOLVED TO PRESENT 
AN ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE 

The braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass 

An address, and present it themselves all in brass; — 

A superfluous pageant — for, by the Lord Harry ! 

They'll find where they're going much more than they carry. 



STANZAS 177 



EPIGRAM 



The world is a bundle of hay, 
Mankind are the asses who pull ; 

Each tugs it a different way, 

And the greatest of all is John Bull. 



STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN 
FLORENCE AND PISA° 

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story ; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled ? 5 
'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled. 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary ! 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory ? 

Oh Fame ! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 

'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 10 

Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 

She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 15 
[ knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 



178 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

STANZAS 

TO A HINDOO AIR 

Oh ! my lonely, lonely, lonely Pillow ! 
Where is my lover ? where is my lover ? 
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover? 
Far, far away ! and alone along the billow ? 

Oh ! my lonely, lonely, lonely Pillow ! 5 

Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay? 
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, 
And my head droops over thee like the willow. 

Oh ! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow ! 

Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking ; 10 

In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking, 

Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. 

Then if thou wilt — no more my lonely Pillow, 
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, 
And then expire of the joy but^to behold him ! 
Oh ! my lone bosom ! — oh ! my lone Pillow ! 

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH 
YEAR 

MISSOLONGHI, JANUARY 22, 1824 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
Since others it hath ceased to move : 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love ! 



ON THIS DAY 179 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 5 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 10 

No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile ! 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share, 15 

But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, 
Where Glory decks the hero's bier, 

Or binds his brow. 20 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
Was not more free. 

Awake ! not Greece — she is awake ! — 25 

Awake, my spirit ! Think through ivhom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down, 

Unworthy manhood ! unto thee 30 

Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 



180 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live ? 

The land of honorable death 
Is here : — up to the field, and give 35 

Away thy breath ! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
And take thy rest. 



NOTES 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY, Page 1 

After the dissolution of the monasteries in 1536, King Henry 
VIII presented the priory of Newstead to Sir John Byron, who 
seems to have been a royal favorite. The estate remained in the 
possession of the Byrons till 1817. 

6. Led their vassals. There seems to he no record of any of 
Byron's ancestors' having gone on the Crusades. 

11. Askalon's towers. Ascalon was an ancient city in Syria, 
on the coast of the Mediterranean. John of Horistan. "In 
Doomsday-book, the name of Ralph de Burun ranks high among 
the tenants of land in Nottinghamshire ; and in the succeeding 
reigns, under the title of Lords of Horestan Castle, we find his 
descendants holding considerable possessions in Derbyshire." — 
Moore" 1 's Life of Byron. 

13. Cressy. Crecy, in France, was the scene of a decisive 
victory of Edward III over the Erench, in 1346. 

17. Marston. The battle of Marston Moor in 1644. Here 
Cromwell defeated the Royalists in the Civil War. Rupert. 
Prince Rupert, a famous cavalry leader in the army of Charles I. 

ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT 
. PUBLIC SCHOOL, Page 2 

Soon after Byron entered Harrow, Dr. Drury, the head master, 
resigned. His successor, Dr. Butler, Byron disliked exceedingly 
181 



182 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 2-3 

and treated with intentional rudeness. "Unhappily their oppor- 
tunities of collision were the more frequent from Byron being a 
resident in Dr. Butler's house. One day, the young rebel, in a fit 
of defiance, tore down all the gratings from the window in the 
hall ; and when called upon by his host to say why he had com- 
mitted this violence, answered with stern coolness, ' Because they 
darkened the hall.' " — Moore 1 s Life of Byron. 

Byron later repented of his rudeness to Dr. Butler and became 
his warm friend. 

1. Ida. A name which Byron frequently applied to Harrow. 

2. Probus. Dr. Drury. 

4. Barbarian. Byron may have had in mind Theodoric, the 
emperor of the Ostrogoths, 493-526, one of the successors of the 
Western emperors after the fall of the Roman empire. 

6. Pomposus. Dr. Butler. 

FRAGMENT WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MAR- 
RIAGE OF MISS CHA WORTH, Page 3 

Mary Chaworth was a young heiress who lived at Annesley, 
near Newstead. When only fifteen, Byron fell deeply in love with 
her. She did not return his affection, however, and in 1805 mar- 
ried a Mr. Musters. This disappointment seems to have affected 
the poet keenly. He himself said : " Our union would have healed 
feuds in which blood had been shed by our fathers — it would have 
joined lands broad and rich, it would have joined at least one 
heart and two persons not ill-matched in years (she is two years 
my elder), and — and — and — ivhat has been the result ? " 

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF HARROW, Page 3 

4. Friendships. At Harrow Byron made many friends, of 
whom Sir Robert Peel became most distinguished in after life. On 
one occasion, when young Peel was being beaten by an older boy, 
Byron rushed up and offered to take half the blows. 



Page 4] NOTES 183 

10. Fields where we fought. "At Harrow I fought my way 
very fairly. I think I lost but one battle out of seven, and that 

was to H ; and the rascal did not win it, but by the unfair 

treatment of his own boarding-house, where we boxed — I had not 
even a second." — Byron's Journal. 

14. Yon tombstone. " They show a tomb in the churchyard at 
Harrow, commanding a view over Windsor, which was so well 
known to be his favorite resting-place, that the boys called it 
'Byron's tomb' ; and here, they say, he used to sit for hours, 
wrapped up in thought, — brooding lonelily over the first stirrings 
of passion and genius in his soul, and occasionally, perhaps, in- 
dulging in those bright forethoughts of fame, under the influence 
of which, when little more than fifteen years of age, he wrote these 
remarkable lines : — 

" ' My epitaph shall be my name alone ; 
If that with honor fail to crown my clay, 
O may no other fame my deeds repay ; 
That, only that, shall single out the spot, 
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.' " 

— Moore's Life of Byron. 

18. Zanga, Alonzo. Characters in Young's drama, The Revenge. 
r My qualities were much more oratorical and martial than poet- 
ical, and Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our head master), had a 
great notion that I should turn out an orator, from my fluency, 
my turbulence, my voice, my copiousness of declamation, and my 
action. I remember that my first declamation astonished him into 
some unwonted (for he was economical of such) and sudden com- 
pliments before the declaimers at our first rehearsal." — Byron 's 
Journal. 

20. Mossop. " A contemporary of Garrick, famous for his per- 
formance of Zanga." — Byron's note. 

21. Lear. A legendary king of Britain, and the hero of Shake- 
speare's tragedy. 



184 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 4-6 

24. Garrick. Celebrated English actor, poet, and dramatist, 
1716-1779. 

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION, 
Page 5 

2. Magnus. Dr. William Lort Mansel, Master of Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge, afterward Bishop of Bristol. 

9. Euclid's axioms. Euclid was a Greek geometrician who 
lived in Alexandria about 300 b.c. 

12. Attic metres. Verse written in Attica, Ancient Greece, 
but used here loosely for any Greek verse. 

15. Edward. Probably Edward III, King of England, 1327- 
1377. He waged successful wars with France. 

16. Henry. Henry V, King of England, 1413-1422. 

17. Magna Charta. The charter guaranteeing rights to the 
English people, extorted from King John, at Runnymede, in 1215. 

19. Lycurgus. The great legendary lawgiver of Sparta. He 
lived about 800 b.c. 

20. Blackstone. Sir William Blackstone, an English jurist, 
1723-1780, author of a well-known work on common law. 

22. Avon's bard. Shakespeare, born in Stratford-on-Avon, 
1564 ; died there, 1616. 

30. Th' Athenian's glowing style. An allusion to Demosthenes, 
the celebrated Athenian orator of the fourth century b.c. Tully's 
fire. Marcus Tullius Cicero, Roman orator of the first century b.c 

38. The Dean. An officer in English universities who presides 
at chapel exercises, and sometimes has general supervision over the 
conduct of the students. 

50. Granta's sluggish shade. In Anglo-Saxon times the river 
flowing through Cambridge was called the Granta, and the Roman 
town built there was called Grantchester. 

51. Cam's sedgy banks. The river which flows through Cam- 
bridge is now called the Cam. Cf. 1. 50. 



Pages 6-8] NOTES 185 

57. Bentley. English critic and classical scholar, 1662-1742. 
Brunck. French critic, 1729-1803. Porson. Professor of Greek 
in Trinity College, Cambridge. 

64. Pitt. William Pitt, English statesman and orator, 1759- 
1806, at one time represented Cambridge University in Parliament. 
Petty. After the death of Pitt, Lord Henry Petty represented 
the University. 

LACHIN Y GAIR, Page 7 

"Lachin y Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch na 
Garr, towers proudly preeminent in the northern Highlands, near 
Invercauld. One of our modern tourists mentions it as the highest 
mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is 
certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our 
'Caledonian Alps.' Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the 
summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent 
some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has 
given birth to these stanzas." — Byron'' s note. 

5. Caledonia. Name given by Roman writers to the northern 
part of Great Britain, and applied poetically to Scotland. 

10. Plaid. "This word is erroneously pronounced placl ; the 
proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the 
orthography." — Byron's note. 

25. Ill-starred, though brave. "I allude here to my maternal 
ancestors, ' the Gordons,' many of whom fought for the unfortu- 
nate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender." 
— Byron's note. 

27. Culloden. A battle fought in Scotland in 1746, in which 
the troops of George II defeated those of the Pretender. 

30. Braemar. A tract in the Highlands of Scotland. 

36. Albion's plain. England. Albyn was the ancient Gaelic 
name for Scotland, and was later applied to the whole island of 
Britain. 



186 BYRON' S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 8-15 



L'AMITIE EST L' AMOUR SANS AILES, Page 8 

Byron tells us that the title of this poem is a French proverb. 
41. Seat of my youth. Harrow. 

51. My Lycus. The Earl of Clare, one Of the poet's intimate 
school friends. 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE, Page 11 

This poem was written December 29, 1806. Moore says of it : 
"It contains, as will be seen, his [Byron's] religious creed at that 
period, and shows how early the struggle between natural piety 
and doubt began in his mind." 

5-8. Cf. The Adieu, 11. 111-114. 



TO A LADY, Page 13 

This poem is addressed to Mrs. Musters, formerly Miss Cha- 
worth. Speaking of her in 1822, Byron said : — 

" Our meetings were stolen ones, and a gate leading from Mr. 
Chaworth's grounds to those of my mother was the place of our 
interviews. But the ardor was all on my side. I was serious ; 
she was volatile : she liked me as a younger brother, and treated 
and laughed at me as a boy ; she, however, gave me her picture, 
and that was something to make verses upon. Had I married her, 
perhaps the whole tenor of my life would have been different." 

2. This pledge. Probably an allusion to the lady's picture. 



I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD, Page 15 

The gloomy sentiment of this poem should not be taken too seri- 
ously. The early life of the poet was sad, but it is doubtful 



Pages 15-19] NOTES 187 

whether at this time he really felt the wretchedness he here 
expresses. 

53-56. Cf. Psalm iv, 6. "Oh! that I had wings like a dove; 
for then would I fly away, and be at rest." 

54. Turtle. Turtle dove. 

THE ADIEU, Page 17 

1. Thou Hill. Harrow. 

7. Ida's paths. Cf. On a Change of Masters at a Great Public 
School, 1. 1, note. • 

12. Granta's vale. Cf . Thoughts suggested by a College Exami- 
nation, 1. 50, note. 

17. Cama's verdant margin. Cf. Thoughts suggested by a 
College Examination, 1. 51, note. 

29. Marr's dusky heath. A district in Scotland between the 
rivers Don and Dee. Dee's clear wave. A river in Scotland, 
flowing into the North Sea. 

30. Sotheron. Southern. 

31. Hall of my sires. Newstead Abbey. 

45. Streamlet. The river Grete, which flows through Southwell. 

55. Mary. Mary Duff, whom the poet met during a visit in the 
[Highlands of Scotland, when he was only eight years old. In 1813 
he wrote of her : " I have been thinking lately a good deal of Mary 
"Duff. How very odd that I should have been so utterly, devotedly 
fond of that girl, at an age when I could neither feel passion, nor 
iknow the meaning of the word. ... I recollect all we said to 
each other, all our caresses, her features, my restlessness, sleep- 
lessness, my tormenting my mother's maid to write for me to her, 
which she at last did, to quiet me. ... I remember, too, our 
walks, and the happiness of sitting by Mary, in the children's 
apartment, at their house not far from the Plainstones at Aber- 
deen, while her lesser sister Helen played with the doll, and we sat 
gravely making love, in our way." 



188 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 19-25 

61. My Friend. Eddlestone, a young chorister in Cambridge, 
about the poet's own age, for whom Byron conceived a romantic 
friendship. He died in 1811. 

65. Thy gift. A cornelian heart given him by Eddlestone. Cf. 
The Cornelian. 

68. Our lot. An allusion to the difference in their rank. 

90. Lethe's stream. A river in Hades supposed by the ancients 
to bring forgetfulness to those who drank of its waters. 

111-114. Cf. The Prayer of Nature, 11. 5-8. 

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE, Page 21 
25-28. Can I sing of the deeds. Cf . On Leaving Newstead Abbey. 

EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL, Page 22 

During Byron's residence at Cambridge, his mother occupied a 
house in Southwell, a village in Nottinghamshire. Byron spent 
considerable time here during his vacations. In a letter written in 
1807 he speaks half jestingly of the place, "0 Southwell, how I 
rejoice to have left thee ! and how I curse the heavy hours I 
dragged along for so many months among the Mohawks who 
inhabit your kraals ! " 

STANZAS FOR MUSIC, Page 23 

" Bright be the place of thy soul." 

15. Cypress, yew. Both these trees are associated with mourn- 
ing. Among Eastern peoples, especially, the cypress is considered 
a tree of mourning. Turkish cemeteries are often planted so thick 
with cypresses that the sun's rays hardly penetrate them. 

LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM 
A SKULL, Page 25 

Byron frequently entertained his college friends at Newstead, 
where they sometimes amused themselves by masquerading as 



Pages 25-29] NOTES 189 

monks, and drinking wine from a cup made from a skull found on 
the place. 

WELL! THOU ART HAPPY, Page 26 

This poem was written shortly after dining" at the house of his 
former sweetheart, Miss Chaworth. 

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUND- 
LAND DOG, Page 27 

These verses were engraved on a monument erected in the garden 
of Newstead, in honor of a favorite dog named Boatswain. In a 
letter to a friend, Byron thus announces the news : "Boatswain is 
dead ! — he expired in a state of madness on the 18th after suffer- 
ing much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last, 
never attempting to do the least injury to any one near him." 

In his fondness for dogs, Byron resembled his fellow-poets, Pope, 
Cowper, and Scott. 

TO A LADY, ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR 
QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING, Page 28 

This poem was addressed to Mrs. Musters, formerly Miss Chaworth. 

TO FLORENCE, Page 29 

The Florence of this poem was a Mrs. Spencer Smith, whom 
Byron met at Malta in the summer of 1809. In a letter to his 
mother he thus describes her: "This letter is committed to the 
charge of a very extraordinary woman, whom you have doubtless 
heard of, Mrs. Spencer Smith, of whose escape the Marquis de 
Salvo published a narrative a few years ago. She has since been 
shipwrecked, and her life has been from its commencement so 
fertile in remarkable incidents that in a romance they would 
appear improbable. She was born at Constantinople, where her 



190 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 29-30 

father, Baron H., was Austrian ambassador; married unhappily, 
yet has never been impeached in point of character ; excited the 
vengeance of Buonaparte by a part in some conspiracy ; several 
times risked her life ; and is not yet twenty-five. She is here on 
her way to England, to join her husband, being obliged to leave 
Trieste, where she was paying a visit to her mother, by the 
approach of the French, and embarks soon in a ship of war. Since 
my arrival here I have had scarcely any other companion. I have 
found her very pretty, very accomplished, and extremely eccentric. 
Buonaparte is even now so incensed against her, that her life 
would be in some danger if she were taken prisoner a second time." 

5. This barren isle. Malta. 

9. Albion's craggy shore. England. Cf. Lachin y Gair, 1. 36, 
note, p. 185. 

32. A tyrant's fiercer wrath. An allusion to Bonaparte. 

34. Byzantium. The ancient name for Constantinople. 

35. Stamboul's oriental halls. Stambouiis the name given by 
the Turks to Constantinople. 

Cf . Childe Harold, Canto II, 266-273 : — 

" Sweet Florence! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine : 
But, checked by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 
Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 

Thus Harold deemed, as on that lady's eye 

He looked, and met its beam without a thought, 

Save Admiration glancing harmless by." 

Cf. also Stanzas composed during a Thunderstorm. 

THE GIRL OF CADIZ, Page 30 

These verses were originally intended to follow the eighty-sixth 
stanza of the first canto of Childe Harold, but were replaced by 
lines To Inez. 



*" 



Pages 30-34] NOTES 191 

In a letter from Gibraltar, written in 1809, Byron says : " Cadiz, 
sweet Cadiz ! — it is the first spot in the creation. The beauty of 
its streets and mansions is only excelled by the loveliness of its 
inhabitants. For, with all national prejudice, I must confess the 
women of Cadiz are as far superior to the English women in beauty 
as the Spaniards are inferior to the English in every quality that 
dignifies the name of man." 

9. Prometheus-like. According to an ancient myth, Prometheus 
stole fire from Olympus to give to mortals. Eor his impiety he was 
chained by Zeus to a rock, to be perpetually tormented by vultures 
who fed on his vitals. 

42. Bolero. A popular Spanish dance. 

46. Hesper. Hesperus, the evening star (Gr. Zo-irepos) ; cf. 
vesper. 

STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A THUNDERSTORM, 
Page 33 

This poem commemorates an incident of Byron's travels in 
Albania, in 1809. The poet's friend Hobhouse thus writes of the 
occasion : " After wandering up and down in total ignorance of 
their position, they had, at last, stopped near some Turkish tomb- 
stones and a torrent, which they saw by the flashes of lightning. 
They had been thus exposed for nine hours ; and the guides, so 
far from assisting them, only augmented the confusion by running 
away." 

2. Pindus' mountains. A lofty mountain range in northern 
Greece, famous in classical times. 

12. Turkish tomb. Important persons in Turkey are often 
buried in tombs which are frequently pretentious and sometimes 
handsome. 

36. Sweet Florence. Cf. To Florence. 

41. Siroc. Sirocco, an oppressive warm wind from Africa, fre- 
quently prevailing in Italy, Malta, and Sicily. 



192 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 35-36 

54. Cadiz. Cf . The Girl of Cadiz ; also Childe Harold, Canto 
I, stanza lxxxv. 

57. Calypso's isles. Calypso was a sea nymph, on whose island 
Odysseus was cast ashore and for some time detained, on his jour- 
ney home from the siege of Troy. 

Cf. Homer's Odyssey, Book V. 

Cf . Stephen Phillips's Ulysses, Act I, sc. ii : — 

" Here would I be, at ease upon this isle 
Set in the glassy ocean's azure swoon, 
With sward of parsley and of violet, 
And poplars shivering in a silvery dream, 
And smell of cedar sawn, and sandal wood, 
And these low-crying birds that haunt the deep." 



MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PAET, Page 35 

This poem was probably inspired by one of the pretty daughters 
of the poet's landlady in Athens, during the winter of 1809-1810. 
For an interesting description of these Greek girls, see Moore's 
Life of Byron, Vol. I. 

This poem has been set to music by many composers, the most 
notable of whom is Gounod. 

6. Zw^j jjiov, eras d"yair». "My life, I love you." 

8. iEgean wind. The eastern part of what is now the Medi- 
terranean was in ancient times called the JEgean Sea. 

15. Token-flowers. "In the East (where ladies are not taught 
to write, lest they should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, 
pebbles, etc., convey the sentiments of the parties by that univer- 
sal deputy of Mercury — an old woman. A cinder says : ' I burn 
for thee ' ; a bunch of flowers tied with hair, ' Take me and fly ' ; 
but a pebble declares — what nothing else can." — Byron's note. 

21. Istambol. Another form of Stamboul. Cf. To Florence, 
1. 35, note. 



Pages 36-38] NOTES 193 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR-SONG, 
AevTc ircuSes t«v 'EW^jvwv, Page 36 

' ' The song Aevre waTdes, etc. , was written by Riza, who perished 
in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. This translation is as lit- 
eral as the author could make it in verse. It is of the same meas- 
ure as that of the original." — Byron'' s note. 

15. Hellenes. Strictly speaking, the descendants of Hellen, 
the Thessalian, a legendary Greek hero ; but a word applied 
loosely to Greeks in general. 

19. Seven-hilled city. Constantinople, the capital of Turkey, 
was, like Rome, built on seven hills. 

29. Leonidas. King of Sparta, who with three hundred Spartans 
and several hundred allies, defended the pass of Thermopylse against 
the Persians in 480 b.c. He was at last overpowered and slain, 
with all his troops. 

34. Thermopylae. A narrow pass with precipitous mountains 
on one side and the sea on the other, extending between the ancient 
Greek states of Malis and Locris. 

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, MiraCvw n&r 's rb 
ir£pi|36\i, Page 38 

" The song from which this is taken is a great favorite with the 
young girls of Athens of all classes. Their manner of singing it is 
by verses in rotation, the whole number present joining in the 
chorus. I have heard it frequently at our x°P ^ m the winter of 
1810-1811. The air is plaintive and pretty." — Byron's note. 

By Romaic Byron means modern Greek. 

" Miralvw ia£<t 's rb Trepi(36\t " would in classic Greek be Balvco ets 
rb irepifidXiov. In modern Greek [atc represents the classic /3, and 
fjito-a eh is the regular idiom for " into." 

3. Flora. In early Italian and Roman mythology, the goddess 
of flowers. 



194 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 39^2 



AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE, Page 39 

Of this poem Byron wrote, in a letter dated December 8, 1811, 
" I wrote it a day or two ago, on hearing a song of former days." 

13. Thyrza. Whether Thyrza was a real person or not has 
been much discussed by Byron's biographers. Moore, in his Life 
of Byron, expresses the opinion that Thyrza was an imaginary 
person, and that the poems addressed to her embody " the essence, 
the abstract spirit, as it were, of many griefs ; — a confluence of 
sad thoughts from many sources of sorrow, refined and warmed in 
their passage through his fancy, and forming thus one deep reser- 
voir of mournful feeling." Byron, however, spoke of Thyrza to 
Lady Byron and showed her a lock of hair which she understood 
to belong to Thyrza. Furthermore, on October 11, 1811, the date 
of his melancholy poem To Thyrza, he wrote, ' ' I have again been 
shocked with a death, and have lost one very dear to me in happier 
times ; but, 'I have almost forgot the taste of grief,' and 'supped 
full of horrors ' till I have become callous, nor have I a tear left for 
an event which, five years ago, would have bowed my head to the 
earth." 

ONE STRUGGLE MORE AND I AM FREE, Page 41 

3. Thee. Thyrza. 

29. Cynthia's noon. Diana, the moon goddess, was often 
called Cynthia, from Mount Cynthus, in Delos, her birthplace. 

EUTHANASIA, Page 42 

The title of this poem is from the Greek eddavaala (eS + ddvaros) 
and means an easy death. 

17. Psyche. A personification of the soul, from the Greek 
tvxv- According to ancient mythology she was a mortal maiden 
beloved by Eros, afterward married to him and made immortal. 
Cf. Keats's Ode to Psyche. 



Pages 44-47] NOTES 195 



IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN, Page 44 

This poem, like the three preceding poems, was probably in- 
spired by the memory of Thyrza. 

ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE 
THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812, Page 46 

Drury-Lane Theatre, the most celebrated playhouse in London, 
was first opened in 1663. It was rebuilt by Sir Christopher Wren 
in 1674, burned in 1811, and rebuilt and reopened the following 
year. Wishing an appropriate address to be read at the formal 
opening of the building, the managers advertised in the news- 
papers for verses to be submitted in a general competition. Those 
submitted were so poor, however, that Byron was at length asked 
to write something for the occasion. This so-called address is the 
result. 

4. Apollo. The god Apollo was supposed by the Greeks and 
Romans to take special interest in the fine arts, and especially in 
music and poetry. He was frequently represented in sculpture 
with a lyre in his hand. Shakespeare. See Thoughts suggested 
by a College Examination, note on 1. 22. 

8. Israel's pillar. The column of fire which guided the Children 
of Israel by night. — Exodus xiii, 21. 

10. Shake its red shadow. ' ' The best view of the said fire 
(which I myself saw from a house-top in Covent Garden) was at 
Westminster Bridge from the reflection of the Thames. 1 ' — Bijron^s 
Letters. 

16. Muse's realm. The nine muses were nymphs who, accord- 
ing to ancient mythology, presided over the fine arts. 

31. Siddons' thrilling art. Mrs. Siddons, celebrated English 
actress, 1755-1831. 

33. Garrick's latest laurels. David Garrick, cf. On a distant 
View of Harrow, 1. 24, note. 



196 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 47-53 

34. Roscius. Garrick was often given this name from the cele- 
brated Roman comic actor, instructor and friend of Cicero, who 
lived in the first century b.c. 

40. Menander's head. Menander was a celebrated Athenian 
comic poet, of whose works only fragments exist, 342-291 b.c. 

43. Brinsley. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Irish dramatist, poli- 
tician and wit, famous as the author of The School for Scandal 
and The Rivals, 1751-1816. 

46. Banquo's glass. Banquo, a character in Shakespeare's 
tragedy of Macbeth, is murdered by Macbeth and afterward 
appears to him in the form of a ghost. The allusion is to Act IV, 
sc. i, 112-124. 

SONNET TO GENEVRA, Page 50 
Byron wrote very few sonnets or other poems which called for 
careful manipulation of verse. He was too impatient to labor over 
his compositions. In 1813 he wrote in his Journal : " Read some 
Italian, and wrote two sonnets. I never wrote but one sonnet 
before, and that was not in earnest, and many years ago, as an 
exercise — and I will never write another. They are the most 
puling, petrifying, stupidly Platonic compositions." 

12. Magdalen. A woman healed by Christ and afterward his 
devoted follower, erroneously identified with the sinful woman 
mentioned in Luke vii, 37-50. She is the subject of many paint- 
ings. Guido. Guido Reni, a famous Italian painter, 1575-1642. 

ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE, Page 52 

In Byron's Journal, under the date of April 10, 1814, is the follow- 
ing entry : ' ' To-day I have boxed one hour — written an ode to 
Napoleon Buonaparte — copied it — eaten six biscuits — drunk four 
bottles of soda water." 

8. Morning Star. Lucifer. 

26. Those Pagod things. "Out of town six days. On my 
return, find my poor little pagod, Napoleon, pushed off his pedestal. 



Pages 53-57] NOTES 197 

It is his own fault. Like Milo he would rend the oak; but it 
closed again, wedged his hands, and now the beasts — lion, bear, 
down to the dirtiest jackal — may all tear him. That Muscovite 
winter wedged his arms ; — ever since he has fought with his hands 
and teeth." — Byron's Journal. Cf. Childe Harold, Canto III, 
stanzas xxxvi-xlii. 

46. He who of old would rend the oak. Milo, a famous Greek 
athlete who lived in the latter part of the sixth century b.c. He 
is said to have been eaten by wolves, while his hands were caught 
in the cleft of a tree which he had tried to pull apart. 

55. The Roman. Sulla, the great Roman general, who, after 
making himself dictator and revenging himself on his enemies, 
retired to private life in the height of his power, 138-78 b.c. 

64. The Spaniard. Charles V, king of Spain and emperor of 
the Holy Eoman Empire, 1500-1558. He abdicated his throne in 
1556, and spent the rest of his life in a monastery. 

110. Thy still imperial bride. Maria Louisa, an Austrian prin- 
cess, who became the wife of Napoleon after he divorced Josephine. 

118. Thy sullen Isle. The island of Elba, off the western coast 
of Italy. After his abdication in 1814, Napoleon was made sover- 
eign of this island with an income to be paid by Erance. 

125. Corinth's pedagogue. Dionysius the Younger, tyrant of 
Syracuse, who, after being banished, went to Corinth and there 
opened a school for boys. 

127. Timour. Timur, or Tamerlane, a Tartar conqueror, who in 
the fourteenth century conquered Persia, Central Asia, and part of 
India. In 1402 he defeated and took prisoner Bajezet I, Sultan of 
Turkey. There is a story, though apparently without historical 
foundation, that Timur confined the Sultan in a cage. 

131. Like he of Babylon. Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylonia, 
604-561 b.c He was for seven years insane and lived like a 
beast. Cf. Daniel iv. 

136. The thief of fire from heaven. Prometheus. Cf. The 
Girl of Cadiz, 1. 9, note. 



198 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 57-59 

141. That last act. A discreditable love intrigue falsely im- 
puted to Napoleon. 

150. Marengo's name. At Marengo, in northern Italy, Napo- 
leon won a bloody victory over the Austrians in 1800. 

168. Cincinnatus. A Roman statesman, who when called to 
the dictatorship by the Senate was found ploughing in the fields. 

170. Washington. Byron greatly admired Washington, and 
generally spoke kindly of Americans. Cf. Childe Harold, stanza 
xcvi, and Don Juan, IX, stanza viii. 

HEBREW MELODIES, Page 58 

The Hebrew Melodies appeared with the following explanation 
by the poet : ' ' The subsequent poems were written at the request 
of my friend, the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, for a selection of Hebrew 
melodies, and have been published, with the music, arranged by 
Mr. Braham and Mr. Nathan." January, 1815. 

Of these poems, Jeffrey, the editor of the Edinburgh Beview, 
said: "The Hebrew Melodies, though obviously inferior to Lord 
Byron's other works, display a skill in versification, and a mastery 
in diction, which would have raised an inferior artist to the very 
summit of distinction." 

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY, Page 58 

This poem was inspired by Byron's cousin, Mrs. Wilmot, who 
appeared at a party, attired in mourning with spangles on her 
dress. On returning to his lodgings the poet drank her health, and 
the next day wrote this poem. 

THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT, 
Page 59 

2. The King of men. David, the great king of Israel, noted as 
a poet and a musician. He lived about 1000 b.c. Cf. Browning's 
Saul. 



Pages 60-62] NOTES VQ 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD, Page 60 

In spite of this and similar poems expressing a belief in God and 
immortality, Byron was constantly accused of irreligion. 

THE WILD GAZELLE, Page 60 

I. Judah's hills. Judah, or Judea, was a district lying along 
the eastern coast of the Mediterranean, between Egypt and Syria. 
It is famous chiefly for its importance in Biblical history. 

5. Its airy step and glorious eye. Cf. To lanthe, stanza iv, 
11. 1-2 : — ^. 

" Oh! let that eye, which wild as the gazelle's, 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy." 

Also The Giaour, II. 473-474 : — 

" Her eyes' dark charm 'twere vain to tell, 
But gaze on that of the gazelle." 

II. The cedars wave on Lebanon. Mount Lebanon in Syria, in 
ancient times famous for its cedars. 

24.' Salem's throne. Salem, meaning peace, is a shortened 
form of Jerusalem. 

• OH! WEEP FOR THOSE, Page 61 

I. Babel's stream. Babel is an abbreviated form of Babylon. 

6. Zion's songs. Mount Zion was one of the four hills on which 
Jerusalem was built. 

II. The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave. Cf. Matthew 
viii, 20: "The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have 
nests ; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head." 

ON JORDAN'S BANKS, Page 62 

1. Jordan's banks. The river Jordan, in Judea, flows in a south- 
erly direction into the Dead Sea. 



200 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 62-66 

3. Baal-adorer. Baal (Hebrew Ba'al = lord), the chief god of 
the Canaanites. Sinai's steep. Mount Sinai in Arabia, where 
Moses received the book of laws from Jehovah. Cf. Exodus 
xxxi, 18. 

JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER, Page 62 
For the story on which this poem is based, cf. Judges xi. 

OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM, Page 63 

On once being asked in what way these verses referred to any 
scriptural subject, Byron replied, " Every mind must make its 
own references ; there is scarcely one of us who could not imagine 
that the affliction belongs to himself, to one it certainly belongs." 

Some editors have supposed that these lines refer to the unknown 
Thyrza. 

MY SOUL IS DARK, Page 64 

One day after speaking jestingly of his reported mental derange- 
ment, Byron said that he would try how a madman would write. 
Taking a pen, he wrote My Soul is Dark, without a single erasure. 

THY DAYS ARE DONE, Page 65 

8. Thou shalt not taste of death. Cf. Matthew xvi, 28, and 
John viii, 52 ; also Julius Ccesar, Act II, sc. ii, 32-33 : — 

" Cowards die many times before their deaths ; 
The valiant never taste of death but once." 



SAUL, Page 66 

These verses are based on Samuel i, 28. 

3. Samuel. One of the prophets of the Old Testament who lived 
about 1100 b.c. 



Pages 66-70] NOTES 201 

4. King. Saul, king of Israel, 1095-1055 b.c. He fell in battle 
against the Philistines. 

15. Why is my sleep disquieted. Cf. 1 Samuel xxviii, 15 : 
"And Samuel said to Saul, Why hast thou disquieted me, to bring 
me up ?" 

19-22. And such shall be. Cf. 1 Samuel xxviii, 19: " Moreover 
the Lord will also deliver Israel with thee into the hand of the 
Philistines ; and to-morrow shalt thou and thy sons be with me." 

22. Thy son. Jonathan. Cf. also Browning's Saul. 

SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE, Page 67 

4. Gath. One of the cities of the Philistines, and birthplace of 
the giant Goliath. 

10. Son of my heart. Cf . Saul, 1. 22, note. 

"ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER," Page 67 

Cf. Ecclesiastes, i, 2 : "Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, 
vanity of vanities ; all is vanity." 

VISION OF BELSHAZZAR, Page 69 

The story on which this poem is based is found in Daniel v. 

2. Satraps. Governors of Persian provinces. 

9-16. In that same hour. " In the same hour came forth fingers 
of a man's hand, and wrote over against the candlestick upon the 
plaister of the wall of the king's palace ; and the king saw the part 
of the hand that wrote." — Daniel v, 5. 

25. Chaldea's seers. Chaldea was an ancient country lying 
along the lower courses of the Tigris and the Euphrates rivers, at 
the head of the Persian gulf. 
. 29. Babel's men of age. The elders of Babylon. 

33. A captive in the land. The prophet Daniel. 

41-48. Belshazzar's grave. Cf. Daniel v, 25-28 : — 



202 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 70-72 

" And this is the writing that was written, MENE, MENE, 
TEKEL, UPHARSIN. 

"This is the interpretation of the thing: MENE; God hath 
numbered thy kingdom and finished it. 

"TEKEL; Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found 
wanting. 

" PERES ; Thy kingdom is divided, and given to the Medes and 
Persians. ' ' 

WERE MY BOSOM AS EALSE AS THOU DEEM'ST IT 
TO BE, Page 71 

This poem seems to represent the speech of a Jew to a political 
and religious enemy. 

2. Galilee. A district of Palestine. There is also a lake of the 
same name. 

HEROD'S LAMENT EOR MARIAMNE, Page 72 

" Mariamne, the wife of Herod the Great, falling under the sus- 
picion of infidelity, was put to death by his order. She was a 
woman of unrivalled beauty and a haughty spirit ; unhappy in 
being the object of passionate attachment, which bordered on 
frenzy, to a man who had more or less concern in the murder of 
her grandfather, father, brother, and uncle, and who had twice 
commanded her death, in case of his own. Ever after Herod was 
haunted by the image of the murdered Mariamne, until disorder of 
the mind brought on disorder of the body, which led to temporary 
derangement. 11 — Milman. 

These verses were written by Byron in response to a request by 
Mr. Nathan for some dull — meaning plaintive — lines. After 
finishing them, the poet passed them over with the remark, " Here, 
Nathan, I think you will find these dull enough." 

Cf. Stephen Phillips^ beautiful drama, Herod. 



Pages 73-75] NOTES 203 

ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM 
BY TITUS, Page 73 

In the year 70 Jerusalem was captured by the Romans under 
Titus, son of the Emperor Vespasian, after a siege of five months. 

5. Temple. The Jews intrenched themselves here, hut were 
finally driven out and the temple burned. 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN AND 
WEPT, Page 73 

With this and By the Waters of Babylon, Byron sent the follow- 
ing note : — 

"Dear Kinnaird : Take only one of these marked 1 and 2, as 
both are but different versions of the same thought — leave the 
choice to any important person you like. 

' ' Yours, 

"B." 

The second poem was omitted in the first collection of the He- 
brew Melodies. 

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB, Page 75 

The story on which this poem is based is in Kings xviii and 
xix. 

1. The Assyrian. Sennacherib, king of Assyria, who lived 
about 700 b.c. 

9. Angel of Death. Cf. Kings xix, 35: "And it came to pass 
that night, that the angel of the Lord went out, and smote in the 
camp of the Assyrians an hundred four score and five thousand ; 
and when they arose early in the morning, behold, they were all 
dead corpses." 



204 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 75-78 

21. Ashur. Assyria, an ancient kingdom in what is now Asia 
Minor, along the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. 

23. Gentile. The name applied by the Jews to a believer in 
another faith. 

A SPIRIT PASSED BEEORE ME, Page 76 

Cf. Job iy, 15-21 : — 

"Then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh 
stood up : 

" It stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof : an 
image was before mine eyes ; there was silence, and I heard a 
voice, saying, 

"Shall mortal man be more just than God? shall a man be 
more pure than his Maker ? 

"Behold, he put no trust in his servants; and his angels he 
charged with folly : 

" How much less in them that dwell in houses of clay, whose 
foundation is in the dust, which are crushed before the moth ? 

"They are destroyed from morning to evening: they perish for 
ever, without any regarding it. 

' ' Doth not their excellency which is in them go away ? they die 
even without wisdom." 

STANZAS EOR MUSIC, Page 76 

"There's not a joy the world can give." 

1 ' Do you remember the lines I sent you early last year ? . . . 

I mean those beginning, 'There's not a joy the world can give,' 

etc., on which I pique myself as being the truest, though the most 

melancholy, I ever wrote." — Byron" 1 s letter to Moore, March, 1816. 

NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL, Page 77 
8. The last single captive to millions in war. In his last cam- 
paign, Napoleon had allied against him, Great Britain, Austria, 
Prussia, and Russia. 



Pages 78-80] NOTES 205 

15. The eagle. Napoleon I, and later Napoleon III, used the 
eagle to surmount the staff of the French standard ; 1804-1814 and 
1852-1870. 

FROM THE FRENCH, Page 78 

5. Maddening o'er that long adieu. "All wept, but particu- 
larly Savary, and a Polish officer who had been exalted from the 
ranks by Buonaparte. He clung to his master's knees ; wrote a 
letter to Lord Keith, entreating permission to accompany him, 
even in the most menial capacity, which could not be admitted." 
— Byron's note. 

16. Blessing him they served so well. "At Waterloo one man 
was seen, whose left arm was shattered by a cannon-ball, to 
wrench it off with the other, and throwing it in the air, exclaimed 
to his comrades, ''Vive V Empereur, jusqii* a la mort /' There were 
many other instances of the like ; this you may, however, depend 
on as true." — Byron's note. 

40. His exile and his grave. Soon after his defeat at Waterloo, 
in June, 1815, Napoleon was exiled to St. Helena, a barren island 
off the western coast of Africa. Here he died in 1821. 

ODE FROM THE FRENCH, Page 80 

8. La Bedoydrer A devoted and able officer of Napoleon, who 
after the ruin of his great master fell into the hands of the allies 
and was executed. 

10. The bravest of the brave. A title given by his troops to 
Marshal Ney, one of Napoleon's ablest officers, on account of his 
gallantry at the battle of Friedland in 1807. 

18. The Wormwood star. Cf. Revelations viii, 10-11 : — 

" And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from 
heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part 
of the rivers, and upon the fountain of waters. 



206 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 84-85 

" And the name of the star is called Wormwood ; and the third 
part of the waters became wormwood ; and many died of the 
waters, because they were made bitter." 

19. Sainted Seer. St. John. 

24. Soldier-citizen. Napoleon. 

36. And thou, too, of the snow-white plume. Murat, a famous 
cavalry leader of Napoleon, placed by him on the throne of Naples, 
afterward dethroned and executed. 

" Poor dear Murat, what an end ! . . . His white plume used 
to be a rallying point in battle, like Henry the Fourth's. He 
refused a confessor and a bandage ; so would neither suffer his 
soul or body to be bandaged." — Byron's letter to Moore, Novem- 
ber 4, 1815. 

78. The "moral lesson" dearly bought. Cf. Scott's Field of 
Waterloo, Conclusion, stanza vi, 1. 3 : " Write, Britain, write the 
moral lesson down." 

80. Capet.* Hugh Capet, king of France, 987-996. 

FARE THEE WELL, Page 83 
This poem was written about two months after Byron's separa- 
tion from his wife, and a month before he left England never 
to return. Moore says that Byron, in his Memoranda, " described, 
and in a manner whose sincerity there was no doubting, the swell 
of tender recollections under the influence of which, as he sat one 
night musing in his study, these stanzas were produced, —the 
tears, as he said, falling fast over the paper as he wrote them." 

35. Wilt thou teach her to say " Father ! " Byron's daughter 
Ada was brought up in ignorance of her father. While on a visit 
to Newstead, the former home of the Byrons, some of his poems 
were read to her, and she was told of his relation to her. It is a 
strange coincidence that, like him, she died at the age of thirty-six. 
According to her request, she was buried beside her father, in the 
little church at Hucknall. 



Pages 86-88] NOTES 207 

STANZAS TO AUGUSTA, Page 86 
" When all around grew drear and dark." 

Throughout his life Byron was devotedly attached to his sister 
Augusta, the Hon. Mrs. Leigh. These verses addressed to her 
were the last he ever wrote in England. They were probably 
written Friday, April 12, 1816. On the 25th Byron sailed for the 
Continent. Cf. Stanzas to Augusta, "Though the day of my 
destiny's over," the Epistle to Augusta, and the verses on the 
Drachenfels'm Childe Harold, Canto III. 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON, Page 87 

This poem was written in June, 1816, at an inn in the village of 
Ouchy, near Lausanne, Switzerland, where the poet was detained 
by bad weather. 

9. Chillon. "The Chateau de Chillon is situated between 
Clarens and Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity of the Lake 
of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the Rhone, and oppo- 
site are the heights of Meillerie and the range of Alps above 
Boveret and St. Gingo. Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent ; 
below it, washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to the depth 
of eight hundred feet French measure ; within it are a range of dun- 
geons, in which the early reformers, and subsequently prisoners of 
state, were confined. Across one of the vaults is a beam black 
with age, on which we were informed that the condemned were 
formerly executed. In the cells are seven pillars, or rather eight, 
one being half merged in the wall ; in some of these are rings 
for the fetters and the fettered ; in the pavement the steps of Bon- 
nivard have left their traces." — Byron's note. 

13. Bonnivard. A Genevese patriot who was for political 
reasons imprisoned in the Castle of Chillon from 1530 to 1536. He 
was a scholar and a writer on theology and history. After his 



208 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 88-91 

release he was loaded with honors by the people of Geneva. He 
gave his library to the city, and bequeathed his property to Switzer- 
land, on condition that it be used for the founding of a college. 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON, Page 88 

13. At the stake. A common method of punishing heretics in 
the Middle Ages was by burning at the stake. 

27. Gothic mould. Made in the so-called Gothic style of archi- 
tecture, which flourished in the Middle Ages. 

100. Sooth. Truth (from Anglo-Saxon so$). 

107. Lake Leman. Lake Geneva. The ancient Roman name 
was Lemanus. Cf. Chilcle Harold, Canto III, stanzas lxxxv and 
lxxxvi : — 

"Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, 

With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 

Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 

Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 

To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 

Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 

Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. 

" It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 

Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more." 

115. Below the surface of the lake. The floor of the dungeon 
is now about ten feet above the level of the lake, and could never 
have been below it. 



Pages 92-103] NOTES . 209 

237. What I wist. What I saw (wist from Anglo-Saxon witan = 
to know). 

294. Lone — as a solitary cloud. Cf. Wordsworth's sonnet, " I 
wandered lonely as a cloud." 

336. The blue Rhone. The Rhone flows through Lake Geneva. 

339. The white-walled distant town. Villeneuve. 

341. Little isle. "Between the entrances of the Rhone and 
Villeneuve, not far from Chillon, is a small island ; the only one I 
could perceive, in my voyage round and over the lake, within its 
circumference. It contains a few trees (I think not above three), 
and from its singleness and diminutive size has a peculiar effect 
upon the view." — Byron's note. 

DARKNESS, Page 100 

"Darkness is a grand and gloomy sketch of the supposed con- 
sequences of the final extinction of the sun and the heavenly 
bodies ; executed, undoubtedly, with great and fearful force, but 
with something of German exaggeration, and a fantastical solution 
of incidents. The very conception is terrible above all conception 
of known calamity, and is too oppressive to the imagination to be 
contemplated with pleasure, even in the faint reflection of poetry." 
— Jeffrey. 

50. Clung. Shrunk or dried up. Cf. Macbeth, Act V, sc. v, 
11. 38-40 : — 

" If thou speak' st false 
Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive 
Till famine cling thee." 

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. 
SHERIDAN, Page 103 

Sheridan died in July, 1816, and was buried with great ceremony 
in Westminster Abbey. 



210 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 104-106 

27. The flash of wit. Sheridan was noted for his wit. " When 
dying he was urged to undergo an operation. He replied that he 
had already submitted to two, which were enough for one man's 
lifetime. Being asked what they were, he answered, ' having his j 
hair cut, and sitting for his picture.' " — Byron'' 's Journal. 

28. The blaze of eloquence. Sheridan was in his day one of 
the most brilliant orators in Parliament. 

41. The loud cry of trampled Hindostan. An allusion to the 
trial of Warren Hastings for abusing his power as governor-general 
of India. During the preliminary discussion, in 1787, Sheridan 
made an address which the orator Fox called the best speech ever 
made in the House of Commons. 

48. The gay creations of his spirit. The brilliant comedies of 
Sheridan. Cf. Address spoken at the Opening of Drury-Lane 
Theatre, 1. 43, note. 

56. Promethean heat. Heat from heaven, like the frre stolen 
by Prometheus, — divine inspiration. 

82. Misery at the door. Sheridan, like Goldsmith, was improvi- 
dent and always in debt. A few days before his death he wrote to 
his friend, the poet Rogers : "I am absolutely undone and broken- 
hearted. They are going to put the carpets out of window, and 
break into Mrs. S.'s room and take me; £150 will remove all diffi- 
culty. For God's sake let me see you." 

103. The wondrous Three. The orators, Fox, Pitt, and Burke, 
contemporaries of Sheridan. 

107. Ye men of wit and social eloquence. "In society I have 
met Sheridan frequently. He was superb ! I have seen him cut 
up Whitbread, quiz Madame de Stael, annihilate Colman, and do 
little less by some others of good fame and ability. I have met 
him at all places and parties and always found him convivial and 
delightful." — Byron's Journal. 

109. While powers of mind almost of boundless range. Sheri- 
dan was a man of remarkably varied powers. 



Pages 107-109] NOTES 211 



PROMETHEUS, Page 107 

Prometheus seems to have been a favorite character of Byron. 
His first English exercise at Harrow was a paraphrase of a chorus 
from the Prometheus Bound of iEschylus. 

1. Titan. The Titans were powerful deities of Greek mythol- 
ogy. They rebelled against their father, Uranus, who threw them 
into Tartarus, and there bound them within walls of brass. Later 
they escaped and waged war against Zeus. 

7. The rock, the vulture, and the chain. Cf. Ode to Napoleon 
Buonaparte, 1. 136, note. 

26. The Thunderer. Zeus, who wielded the thunderbolts. 

29. The fate thou dids't so well foresee. Prometheus possessed 
the secret of the ultimate fate of Zeus and his rule. To obtain this 
secret, Zeus at length permitted Heracles to shoot the vulture 
which tormented Prometheus, to release the Titan and allow him 
to return to Olympus. 

35. Thy Godlike crime was to be kind. The object of Prome- 
theus in stealing the fire from Olympus was, by bestowing it on 
mankind, to alleviate their misery. 

SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN, Page 109 

Cf. The Prisoner of Chillon, 1. 107, note. 

1. Rousseau. Celebrated Erench philosopher, born in Geneva ; 
1712-1778. Voltaire. Eamous Erench poet, historian, and philos- 
opher. He spent his late years at Eerney, near Geneva ; 1694- 
1778. Gibbon. English historian, famous for the History of the 
Decline and Fall of the Boman Empire ; 1737-1794. In a letter 
dated " Ouchy, near Lausanne, June 27, 1816," Byron writes to 
his publisher, Murray: "I enclose you a sprig of Gibbon's 
acacia and some rose-leaves from his garden, which, with part of 
his house, I have just seen. You will find honorable mention, in 
his Life, made of this l acacia,' when he walked out on the night of 



212 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 109-112 

concluding his history. The garden and summer-house where 
he composed, are neglected, and the last utterly decayed ; but 
they still show it as his ' cabinet,' and seem perfectly aware of his 
memory." De Stael. Madame de Stael, celebrated Frenchwoman, 
author of several novels, and noted for the brilliancy of her conver- 
sation. Byron met her in London several years before this poem 
was written, and during his stay in Switzerland made her a visit. 

CHURCHILL'S GRAVE, Page 109 

Byron tells us that he wrote this poem in imitation of the style 
of Wordsworth. 

Charles Churchill was an English poet, chiefly a writer of satires ; 
1731-1764. 

23. A Newton's thought. Sir Isaac Newton, the great English 
mathematician ; 1642-1727. 

28. Wot. Knew (from Anglo-Saxon witan = to know). 

A FRAGMENT, Page 111 

" Could I remount the river of my years " 
In this, as in the other poems of Byron, written at this period, a 
deeper note is sounded than in any of his earlier work. The poet's 
recent domestic troubles had stung him keenly, and led him to 
reflect more deeply than ever before. 

THE DREAM, Page 112 

This poem was written during the poet's stay at Diodati. Moore 
calls it, "The most mournful, as well as picturesque, 'story of a 
wandering life ' that ever came from the pen and heart of man." 

The critic Jeffrey says : ' ' This poem is written with great 
beauty and genius — but is extremely painful. We cannot main- 
tain our accustomed tone of levity, or even speak like calm literary 
judges, in the midst of these agonizing traces of a wounded and 
distempered spirit. Even our admiration is swallowed up in a 
most painful feeling of pity and of wonder. It is impossible to 



Pages 112-118] NOTES 213 

mistake these for fictitious sorrows, conjured up for the purpose 
of poetical effect. There is a dreadful tone of sincerity, and an 
energy that cannot be counterfeited, in the expression of wretched- 
ness, and alienation from human kind, which occur in every line 
of this poem." 

19. The mind can make substance. Cf. Milton's Paradise 
Lost, Book I, 11. 254-255 : — 

" The mind is its own place, and in itself 
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven." 

39. Maiden. Miss Chaworth. Youth. The poet himself. 

76-104. Ancient mansion. "The picture which he [Byron] 
has drawn of his youthful love, in one of the most interesting of 
his poems, The Dream, shows how genius and feeling can elevate 
the realities of this life, and give to the commonest events and 
objects an undying lustre. The old hall at Annesley, under the 
name of ' the antique oratory,' will long call up to fancy the 
' maiden and the youth ' who once stood in it ; while the image 
of the 'lover's steed,' though suggested by the unromantic race- 
ground of Nottingham, will not the less conduce to the general 
charm of the scene, and share a portion of the light which only 
genius could shed over it." — Moore" 1 s Life of Byron. 

106-125. In the wilds. These lines allude to Byron's travels 
in the East. 

136. What could her grief be ? The marriage of Miss Chaworth, 
like that of the poet, turned out unhappily. 

173. The queen of a fantastic realm. Mrs. Musters, formerly 
Miss Chaworth, finally became insane. 

185-201. The wanderer was alone. In these lines the poet 
alludes to the suffering he endured after his separation from his 
wife, and the relief he found in the study of nature. 

191. The Pontic monarch. Mithridates the Great, king of 
Pontus, a kingdom on the Black Sea, 132(?)-63 b.c. He rendered 
himself proof against poison by drugging himself with antidotes. 



214 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 119-127 

STANZAS TO AUGUSTA, Page 119 

" Though the day of my destiny 's over " 
In a letter to his publisher, written in October, 1816, Byron 
says, " Be careful in printing the stanzas beginning 'Though the 
day of my destiny,' etc." 

EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA, Page 121 
These stanzas, written at Diodati in the summer of 1816, were 
sent to England to be published if Mrs. Leigh did not object. As 
she did object, they did not appear to the public till 1830. In Jan- 
uary, 1831, the Quarterly Review said of these verses, " There is, 
perhaps, nothing more mournfully and desolately beautiful in the 
whole range of Lord Byron's poetry." 

15. Our grandsire's fate of yore. Admiral Byron was famous 
for making stormy voyages. He was facetiously called by sailors, 
"Foul weather Jack." 

26-30. My whole life was a contest. Notice this bit of auto- 
biographical evidence. 

63. A lake I can behold. Lake Geneva. 

64. Our own of old. The lake at Newstead. Cf. Don Juan, 
Canto XIII, stanza lvii. 

LINES ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL, 
Page 126 

When Byron learned that Lady Byron was ill, he was engaged in 
writing a prose romance in which he intended to set forth some- 
thing of his own unfortunate marriage experience. He immediately 
destroyed the manuscript of his romance and wrote the poem. 

15. Nemesis. Goddess of punishment, according to ancient 
mythology. 

37. Clytemnestra. The wife of Agamemnon, king of Argos, 
who murdered her husband on his return from the siege of Troy, 
and was afterward killed by her son Orestes. The best treatment 
of the story is in the Agamemnon of JEschylus. 



Pages 128-129] NOTES 215 

53. Janus-spirits. Two-faced. Janus was an ancient god of 
beginnings and endings, and was represented with two faces, one 
looking before, the other behind. 

TO THOMAS MOORE, Page 128 
" What are you doing now " 

In English Bards and Scotch Reviewers Byron spoke severely of 
the Irish poet Moore, already well known as a writer of songs and 
light verses. Moore at once sent a challenge to Byron, which, 
owing to the latter's departure from England and two years' stay 
abroad, never reached him. On Byron's return, Moore made 
advances to him which led to their becoming warm friends. 

These verses were included in a letter to Moore, written in 
Venice, December 24, 1816. 

TO MR. MURRAY, Page 129 
" To hook the reader " 

Byron's connection with Murray began in 1809, with the publish- 
ing of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Throughout the 
remainder of Byron's life Murray published, with some slight ex- 
ceptions, all of the poet's writings. 

2. Anjou's Margaret. Margaret of Anjou, a poem by a Miss 
Holford, a writer long since forgotten. 

6. Ilderim. A poem by a Mr. Gaily Knight. 

11. Perry. A well-known London editor of Byron's time. 

15. Galley. A pun on the name of the author of Ilderim. 

TO THOMAS MOORE, Page 129 

" My boat is on the shore " 

The first stanza of the poem was written in April, 1816, just 
before the poet left England. The complete poem was sent to 
Moore the following year, from Venice. 



216 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 130-135 

TO MR. MURRAY, Page 130 

" Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times" 

1. Strahan. An eminent Scotch printer who moved to London 
and was elected to Parliament, 1715(?)-1785. Tonson. A noted 
English bookseller and publisher, 1656-1736. Lintot. An English 
bookseller chiefly noted as the publisher of Pope's works ; a con- 
temporary of Tonson. 

3. Pindus. Cf. Stanzas composed during a Thunderstorm, 1. 2, 
note. 

10. Quarterly. The Quarterly Beview, a well-known London 
periodical of Byron's time. 

ODE ON VENICE, Page 131 

In a letter written from Venice in 1816, Byron says : "Venice 
pleases me as much as can be expected, and I expected much. It 
is one of those places which I know before I see them, and has 
always haunted me the most after the East. I like the gloomy 
gayety of their gondolas, and the silence of their canals. I do not 
even dislike the evident decay of the city, though I regret the sin- 
gularity of its vanished costume ; however, there is much left still." 

Cf. Childe Harold, Canto IV, 11. 1-36. 

The Ode on Venice was completed in July, 1818. 

19. The Lion. The Lion of St Mark's, the standard of the 
Venetian republic. A figure of the Lion stands on the top of a 
column near the Doge's palace. 

20. Barbarian drum. An allusion to the Austrian garrison 
which occupied the city. 

114. The Cross. The symbol of Christianity, the spread of 
which Venice did so much to further. 

116. The unholy Crescent. The star and the crescent are 
national emblems of Turkey. 

122. The "kingdom" of a conquering foe. The Italian pos- 



Pages 135-138] NOTES 217 

sessions of Austria were at this time known as the "kingdom of 
Venetian Lombardy." 

144-148. She has taught. An allusion to the naval victories of 
the United States over the British in the war of 1§12. 

145. Her Esau-brethren. An allusion to the story of Jacob and 
Esau, Genesis xxv, 29-34. 

146. Floating fence. Eence = defence. Albion's feebler crag. 
Cf. Lachin y Gair, L 36, note. 

MAZEPPA, Page 136 

This poem, which was written partly in Venice and partly in 
Ravenna, in 1818, is founded on a story told by Voltaire, in his 
History of Charles XII. 

1. Pultowa's day. In 1709 Peter the Great destroyed the 
Swedish army under Charles XII, at Pultowa, a city of southwest 
Russia. 

2. Royal Swede. Charles XII, king of Sweden, 1697-1718. 

7. Triumphant Czar. Peter the Great of Russia, 1689-1725. 

8. Moscow's walls. Moscow was once the capital of Russia. 

9. A day more dark and drear. An allusion to the Russian 
campaign of Napoleon in 1812, in which the Russians burned Mos- 
cow, and the French army was almost destroyed by cold, hunger, 
disease, and the sword. 

16. The wounded Charles. Cf. 1. 2. 

23. Gieta. A Swedish colonel. 

53. Mazeppa. A Cossack, who had deserted from the Russians 
and joined the Swedes. He has been made the hero of several 
poems and plays. The composer Liszt has a symphonic poem 
named for him. 

56. The Ukraine's hetman. Ukraine, a district in Russia, lying 
in the valley of the river Dnieper ; hetman, a Polish word mean- 
ing commander-in-chief. 

58. The Cossack prince. Mazeppa. 



218 BYROJV'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 138-163 

103. Alexander's days. Alexander the Great, king of Mace- 
don, 356-323 b.c. 

104. Bucephalus. A favorite horse of Alexander. 

105. Scythia's fame. The Scythians, a rude people inhabiting 
what is now southern Russia, were in ancient times noted for their 
horsemanship. 

116. Swift Borysthenes. A river in European Russia, flowing 
into the Black Sea. 

129. John Casimir. King of Poland. 

135. Warsaw's diet. Warsaw was the capital ; the diet, the 
assembly, of Poland. 

147. Solomon. King of Israel, famous for his wisdom, who 
lived about 1000 b.c 

434. The Tartars. The Tartars, or Mongols, were a savage, war- 
like race from Asia, who in the thirteenth century swept over 
Europe and ravaged Russia and Hungary. Most of them finally 
returned to Asia, but they held Russia under their sway for more 
than two centuries. 

437. The Spahi's hoof. Spahi, a Turkish cavalryman. 

619. Ignis-fatuus. Meaning and derivation ? 

663. Matin. Meaning and derivation ? 

664. Many a werst. Werst, or verst, a Russian measure corre- 
sponding to about 3501 English feet. 

738. Wassail. Meaning and derivation ? 

759. Guerdon. Meaning and derivation ? 

816. Vulture's feast. Note that in 1. 770 it is the "expecting 
raven " which hovers over Mazeppa. 

859. As I shall yield when safely there. " Charles, having 
perceived that the day was lost, and that his only chance of safety 
was to retire with the utmost precipitation, suffered himself to be 
mounted on horseback, and with the remains of his army fled to a 
place called Perewolochna, situated in the angle formed by the 
junction of the Vorskla and the Borysthenes. Here, accompanied 
by Mazeppa and a few hundreds of his followers, Charles swam 



Pages 163-166] NOTES 219 

over the latter great river, and proceeding over a desolate country, 
in danger of perishing with hunger, at length reached the Bog, 
where he was kindly received by the Turkish pacha. The Russian 
envoy at the Sublime Porte demanded that Mazeppa should be 
delivered up to Peter, but the old hetman of the Cossacks escaped 
this fate by taking a disease which hastened his death. 1 ' — Bar- 
row's Peter the Great, pp. 196-203. 

STANZAS TO THE PO, Page 163 

Byron wrote this poem while on a journey from Venice to 
Ravenna, where the Countess Guiccioli was lying ill. 

1. The ancient walls. Ravenna. 

2. The lady of my love. Countess Guiccioli. 

43. Is all meridian. Possessing southern warmth. 
47. In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot. An allusion to the 
sufferings caused by his unhappy marriage. 

THE ISLES OF GREECE, Page 165 

These verses, from Don Juan, Canto III, are represented as 
being sung by a poet at a banquet. 

2. Sappho. A Greek poetess who lived about 600 b.c. 

4. Delos. An island east of Greece, according to ancient 
mythology the birthplace of Apollo and Artemis. Phoebus. An 
epithet meaning bright-shining, frequently applied to Apollo. 

7. Scian muse. The island of Chios, modern Scio, was one of 
the places which claimed to be the birthplace of Homer. It was 
also the birthplace of the poet Theocritus. Teian muse. Teos, a 
town on the coast of Asia Minor, noted as the birthplace of the 
poet Anacreon, who sang chiefly of the pleasures of the senses. 
j-He lived 563 (?)-478 b.c. 

12. Islands of the Blest. Eabled islands, sometimes called the 
Fortunate Isles, supposed by the ancients to be somewhere in the 
western seas. Thither persons especially favored by the gods were 
supposed to be conveyed without dying. 



220 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 166-169 

13. Marathon. The plain about twenty miles northeast of 
Athens, where the Greeks under Miltiades defeated an invading 
army of Persians, in 490 b.c. 

19. A king. Xerxes, king of Persia. 

20. Salamis. A bay not far from Athens, where a Greek fleet 
defeated a vastly superior fleet of Persians, in 480 b.c. 

41. The three hundred. The Spartans who fell at Thermopylae 
with Leonidas. Cf. Translation of the famous Greek War-Song, 
1. 29, note. 

50. Samian wine. Wine from Samos, an island noted in ancient 
times, off the coast of Asia Minor. 

52. Scio's vine. Scio, cf. 1. 7, note. 

54. Bacchanal. A follower of Bacchus, god of the vine, 

55. Pyrrhic dance. A dance still used in Greece. 

56. Pyrrhic phalanx. A military formation perfected by Pyr- 
rhus, king of Epirus, 318-272 b.c. 

59. Cadmus. The legendary founder of ancient Thebes, who 
first taught the Greeks the use of letters. 

63. Anacreon's song. Anacreon, cf. 1. 7, note. 

64. Polycrates. A powerful despot of Samos who lived in the 
sixth century b.c 

67. The Chersonese. The strip of land lying along the European 
side of the ancient Hellespont, between the Mediterranean and the 
Sea of Marmora. 

69. Miltiades. An uncle of the Miltiades who commanded the 
Greek forces at Marathon. He was an able and just ruler. 

74. Suli's rock. Suli is a mountainous district in Albania. 
Parga's shore. Parga is a seaport in Albania. 

76. Doric mothers. Mothers of Doric or Dorian race, one of 
the four great races from which the Greeks traced their descent. 

78. The Heracleidan blood. The race of Heracles. 

79. Franks. The name applied by Greeks, Turks, and other 
neighboring peoples to the inhabitants of western Europe. 

91. Sunium's marbled steep. Sunium was the southeastei* 4 



Pages 169-171] NOTES 221 

extremity of ancient Attica. Here, on a point overlooking the 
sea, was a temple of Athena. 

AVE MARIA, Page 169 

1. Ave Maria. Hail Mary ! 

14. The Almighty dove. The symbol of the Holy Spirit, fre- 
quently used in ecclesiastical art. 

19. Ravenna's immemorial wood. An extensive pine wood 
said to occupy the site of the ancient Roman harbor. It is men- 
tioned in Novella eight, of the fifth book of Boccaccio's De- 
cameron. 

20. Adrian wave. The Adriatic Sea. 

21. Caesarean fortress. The ruins of the palace of Theodoric, 
emperor of the Ostrogoths, still stand in Ravenna. 

22. Boccaccio's lore. Boccaccio, the Italian novelist, 1313- 
1375. Cf. 1. 19, note. 

23. Dryden's lay. TJieodore and Honoria, a versification of 
Boccaccio's Novella eight, of the fifth book of the Decameron. 
Dryden uses his original very freely, changing the names. of the 
characters and making such other alterations as suit his purpose. 
Dryden. English poet and dramatist, 1631-1700. 

29. The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line. An allusion to 
Novella eight, of the fifth book of the Decameron. The spectre 
huntsman was not of "Onesti's line," however, but merely ap- 
peared to him as he wandered in the wood. Byron's error was 
due to a natural confusion of memory. 

STANZAS, Page 171 

"could love forever" 

These lines have an airiness of movement and a musical quality 
that are unusual in Byron's verses, and remind one of Shelley. 
They were written in Ravenna. 



222 BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS [Pages 174-175 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI, Page 174 

In a letter to Murray, dated Ravenna, March 20, 1820, Byron 
says : " Enclosed you will find, line for line, in third rhyme (terza 
rima) , of which your British blackguard public as yet understands 
nothing, Fanny of Rimini. You know that she was born here and 
married, and slain, from Cary, Boyd, and such people. I have 
done it into cramp English, line for line, and rhyme for rhyme, to 
try the possibility." 

About 1275 Francesca, daughter of the Lord of Ravenna, was 
married to Gianciotto, son of the Lord of Rimini. Gianciotto, who 
was very ugly, sent his handsome and accomplished brother Paolo 
as his representative at the ceremony, and the marriage took place 
by proxy. On making the acquaintance of her husband, Fran- 
cesca found little in him to interest her, and at length fell in love 
with Paolo. The lovers were finally surprised and killed by the 
wronged husband. The story has been dramatized by the Italian 
writer D' Annuzio and by Stephen Phillips. 

I. The land where I was born. Ravenna. 

II. Caina. Circle nine of the Inferno, where fratricides are 
immersed up to their necks. Him. Gianciotto. 

13. I. Dante, Italian poet, author of the Divine Comedy, 1265- 
1321. 

15. The bard. Virgil, who is represented in the Divine Comedy 
as conducting Dante through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise. 

25-27. The greatest of all woes, etc. Cf. Tennyson's Locksley 
Hall : — 

" A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things." 

27. Thy teacher. Virgil. 

32. Lancilot. Lancelot, the famous knight of the court of King 
Arthur. Cf. Malory's Morte Darthur and Tennyson's Idylls of the 
King. 



Pages 175-177] NOTES 223 

37. Her. Queen Guinevere, who loved Lancelot and was loved 
by him. 

39. He. Paolo. 

44. With pity's thralls. Enthralled or enslaved by pity. 
(Thrall from A.S. thrall serf or bondman.) 

STANZAS, Page 176 

" When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home " 

These lines first appeared in a letter from Byron to Moore, dated 
Ravenna, November 5, 1820. 

ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY, Page 176 

4 'To-morrow is my birthday — that is to say, at twelve o' the 
clock, midnight, i.e. in twelve minutes, I shall have completed 
thirty and three years of age ! ! ! — and I go to my bed with a 
heaviness of heart at having lived so long, and to so little purpose. 

" It is three minutes past twelve, — * 'Tis the middle of night by 
the castle clock,' and I am now thirty-three." — Byron's Journal. 

EPIGRAM ON THE BRAZIERS' COMPANY, Page 176 

In a letter to Moore dated Ravenna, January 22, 1821, Byron 
enclosed these verses together with those on his thirty-third 
birthday. 

Queen Caroline was the unhappy wife of George IV. She was 
tried for misconduct, and though the charges against her were not 
proved, she was excluded from the coronation ceremonies and soon 
afterward died, a broken-hearted woman. 

EPIGRAM, Page 177 

4 ' The world is a bundle of hay " 

These verses were included in a letter to Moore, written from 
Ravenna, June 22, 1821. 



224 BYRON'S SHORTER FOE MS [Pages 177-180 



STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN 
FLORENCE AND PISA, Page 177 

" I composed these stanzas (except the fourth added now) a few 
days ago r on the road from Florence to Pisa." — Byron's Journal., 
Pisa, November 6, 1821. 

STANZAS TO A HINDOO AIR, Page 178 

Byron wrote these verses shortly before leaving Italy for Greece. 
They were intended for the Hindostanee air Alia Malla Punca, 
which the Countess Guiccioli was fond of singing. 

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR, 
Page 178 

"On the morning of the 22d of January, his birthday, — the last 
my poor friend was ever fated to see, — he came from his bedroom 
into the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some others were 
assembled, and said, with a smile, l You were complaining the 
other day that I never write any poetry now. This is my birth- 
day, and I have just finished something which, I think, is better 
than what I usually write. 7 He then produced to them those 
beautiful stanzas . . . affectionately associated with the closing 
scene of his life. . . . Taking into consideration, indeed, every- 
thing connected with these verses, — the last tender aspirations of 
a loving spirit which they breathe, the self-devotion to a noble 
cause which they so nobly express, and that consciousness of a 
near grave glimmering sadly through the whole, — there is, per- 
haps, no production within the range of mere human composition , 
round which the circumstances and feelings under which it was 
written cast so touching an interest.' ' — Moore 1 s Life of Byron. 

23. The Spartan, borne upon his shield. An allusion to the 
story of the Spartan mother who, when her son was departing for 
battle, told him to return with his shield or on it. 



INDEX TO NOTES 



Adrian wave, 221. 
Mgezn, 192. 
Albion, 185, 190, 217. 
Alexander, 218. 
Almighty dove, 221. 
Alonzo, 183. 
Anacreon, 219. 
ancient walls, 219. 
Angel of Death, 203. 
Anjou's Margaret, 215. 
Apollo, 195. 
Ascalon, 181. 
Ashur, 201. 
Assyria, 204. 
Assyrian, the, 203. 
Athenian, the, 184. 
Attic metres, 184. 
Augusta, 207. 
Ave Maria, 221. 
> Avon's bard, 184. 

Baal, 200. 
Babel, 199. 

Babel's men of age, 201. 
Babylon, 199, 201. 
Bacchanal, 220. 
Banquo's glass, 196. 
■ barbarian, 182. 
barbarian drum, 216. 
bard, 222. 
barren isle, 190. 
Belshazzar, 201. 



Bentley, 185. 
Blackstone, 184. 
Boatswain, 189. 
Boccaccio, 221. 
Bolero, 191. 
Bonnivard, 207. 
Borysthenes, 218. 
Braemar, 185. 
bravest of the brave, 205 
Brinsley, 196. 
Brunck, 185. 
Bucephalus, 218. 
Buonaparte, 190, 196. 
Butler, 181, 182. 
Byzantium, 190. 

Cadiz, 191, 192. 
Cadmus, 220. 
Csesarean fortress, 221. 
Caina, 222. 
Caledonia, 185. 
Calypso's isles, 192. 
Cam, 184. 
Cama, 187. 
Capet, 206. 
captive, 201. 
Caroline, 223. 
Casimir, 218. 
Chaklea, 201. 
Charles V, 197. 
Charles XII, 217, 218. 
Chaworth, Miss, 182, 213. 
225 



226 



BYRON'S SHORTER POEMS 



Chersonese, 220. 
Chillon, 207. 
Churchill, 212. 
Cicero, 184. 
Cincinnatus, 198. 
clung, 209. 
Clytemnestra, 214. 
Coustantinople, 190, 193. 
Corinth's pedagogue, 197. 
Cossack prince, 217. 
Countess Guiccioli, 219, 224. 
Crescent, 216. 
Cressy, 181. 
Cross, 216. 
Culloden, 185. 
Cynthia, 194. 
cypress, 188. 
Czar, 217. 

Daniel, 201. 

Dante, 222. 

Darkness, 209. 

David, 198. 

Dean, 184. 

Dee's clear wave, 187. 

Delos, 219. 

Demosthenes, 184. 

De Stael, 212. 

AeOre 7rcu5es, 193. 

Diana, 194. 

diet, 218. 

Dionysius, 197. 

Doric mothers, 220. 

Dream, 212. 

Drury, 181, 182, 183. 

Drury-Lane Theatre, 195. 

Dryden, 221. 

Dryden's lay, 221. 

eagle, 205. 

Earl of Clare, 186. 



Eddlestone, 188. 
Edward, 184. 
Elba, 197. 
eloquence, 210. 
Esau-brethren, 217. 
Euclid, 184. 
eddavacria, 194. 

fate, 211. 

Father, 206. 

fence, 217. 

fields where we fought, 183. 

Flora, 193. 

Florence, 189. 

Francesca of Rimini, 222. 

Franks, 220. 

Friend, 188. 

friendships, 182. 

Galilee, 202. 
Galley, 215. 
Garrick, 184, 195. 
Gath, 201. 
gay creations, 210. 
Gentile, 204. 
Gibbon, 211. 
Gieta, 217. 
gift, 188. 

Godlike crime, 211. 
Gothic mould, 208. 
grandsire's fate, 214. 
Granta, 184, 187. 
guerdon, 218. 
Guido, 196. 
Guinevere, 223. 

Hall of my sires, 187. 
Harrow, 181, 182, 183, 186. 
he, 223. 

Hebrew melodies, 198. 
Hellenes, 193. 



INDEX 



"227 



. Henry V, 184. 
her, 223. 

Heracleidan blood , 220. 
Herod, 202. 
Hesper, 191. 
hetman, 217. 
Hill, 187. 
him, 222. 
Hiudostan, 210. 

I, 222. 

Ida, 182, 187. 

ignis-fatuus, 218. 

Ilderim, 215. 

ill-starred, 185. 

imperial bride, 197. 

Islands of the Blest, 219. 

isle, 209. 

Israel's pillar, 195. 

Istambol, 192. 

Janus-spirits, 215. 
John of Horistan, 181. 
Jonathan, 201. 
Jordan, 199. 
Judah, 199. 

king, 201, 220. 
kingdom, 216. 
King of men, 198. 

La Bedoyere, 205. 
Lachin y Gair, 185. 
lady of my love, 219. 
lake, 214. 
Lake Geneva, 207, S 

214. 
Lancilot, 222. 
Lear, 183. 
Lebanon, 199. 
Leman, 208, 211. 



209, 



Leonidas, 193. 
Lethe's stream, 188. 
Lintot, 216. 
Lion, 216. 
lot, 188. 
Lucifer, 196. 
Lycurgus, 184. 
Lycus, 186. 

Magdalen, 196. 
Magna Charta, 184. 
Magnus, 184. 
maiden, 213. 
Malta, 189, 190. 
mansion, 213. 
Marathon, 220. 
Marengo, 198. 
Maria Louisa, 197. 
Mariamne, 202. 
Marr's dusky heath, 187. 
Marston, 181. 
Mary, 187. 
matin, 218. 

Mazeppa, 217, 218, 219. 
Menander, 196. 
meridian, 219. 
Milo, 197. 
Miltiades, 220. 
misery, 210. 
Mithridates, 213. 
Moore, 215. 
moral lesson, 206. 
Morning Star, 196. 
Moscow, 217. 
Mossop, 183. 
M.iralv<a (iia 

193. 
Murat, 206. 
Murray, 215. 
Muses' realm, 195. 
Musters, Mrs. 186, 189, 213, 



rb irepifidXi, 



228 



BYRON'S SHOE TEE POEMS 



Napoleon, 196, 197, 204, 205, 206, 217. 

Nebuchadnezzar, 197. 

Nemesis, 214. 

Newstead Abbey, 181, 187. 

Newton, 212. 

Ney, 205. 

Pagod things, 196. 
Paolo, 222, 223. 
Parga, 220. 
Perry, 215. 
Peter the Great, 217. 
Petty, 185. 
Phoebus, 219. 
Pindus, 191, 216. 
Pitt, 185. 

pity's thralls, 223. 
plaid, 185. 
pledge, 186. 
Polycrates, 220. 
Pomposus, 182. 
Pontic monarch, 213. 
Porson, 185. 
powers of mind, 210. 
Probus, 182. 
Promethean heat, 210. 
Prometheus, 191, 211. 
Prometheus-like, 191. 
Pultowa, 217. 
Psyche, 194. 
Pyrrhic dance, 220. 
Pyrrhic phalanx, 220. 
Pyrrhus, 220. 

Quarterly, 216. 

queen of a fantastic realm, 213. 

Ravenna, 217, 219, 221, 222. 
Ravenna's immemorial wood, 221 
red shadow, 195. 
Rhone, 209. 



Roman, the, 197. 
Roscius, 196. 
Rousseau, 211. 
Royal Swede, 217. 
Rupert, 181. 

sainted Seer, 206. 
Salamis, 220. 
Salem, 199. 
Samian wine, 220. 
Samuel, 200. 
Sappho, 219. 
Satraps, 201. 
Saul, 201. 
Scian muse, 219. 
Scio's vine, 220. 
Scythia's fame, 218. 
Seat of my youth, 186. 
Sennacherib, 203. 
Seven-hilled city, 193. 
Shakespeare, 184, 195. 
Sheridan, 196, 209, 210. 
Siddons, Mrs., 195. 
Sinai, 200. 
Siroc, 191. 
soldier-citizen, 206. 
Solomon, 218. 
son of my heart, 201. 
sooth, 208. 
Sotheron, 187. 
Southwell, 188. 
Spahi, 218. 
Spaniard, the, 197. 
Spartan, 224. 
Spectre huntsman, 221. 
stake, 208. 
Stamboul, 190. 
Strahan, 216. 
Streamlet, 187. 
Suli, 220. 
Sulla, 197. 



229 



Sullen Isle, 197. 
Sunium, 220. 

Tartars, 218. 

teacher, 222. 

Teian muse, 219. 

temple, 203. 

that last act, 198. 

thee, 194. 

Theodoric, 182, 221. 

Thermopylae, 193, 220. 

thief of fire, 197. 

three hundred, 220. 

Thunderer, 211. 

Thyrza, 194. 

thy son, 201. 

Timour, 197. 

Titan, 211. 

Titus, 203. 

token-flowers, 192. 

tombstone, 183. 

Tonson, 216. 

tortures, 219. 

Tully's fire, 184. 

Turkish tomb, 191. 

turtle, 187. 

tyrants' fiercer wrath, 190. 

Ukraine, 217. 



vassals, 181. 
Venice, 216. 
Villeneuve, 209. 
Virgil, 222. 
Voltaire, 211. 
vulture's feast, 218. 

Warsaw, 218. 

Washington, 198. 

wassail, 218. 

werst, 218. 

white-walled town, 209. 

wilds, 213. 

wist, 209. 

wit, 210. 

wondrous Three, 210. 

Wormwood star, 205. 

wot, 212. 

Xerxes, 220. 

yew, 188. 
youth, 213. 

Zanga, 183. 

Zion, 199. 

Zw?7 (mov, eras d7a7rw, 192. 



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